Fog huddles close,
not ready to relinquish
its early hour hold,
mirrors the mood
of almost, to the minute,
a week ago, when explosive fire
melted lives and structures into dust.

On my kitchen counter,
sits a recently rediscovered
portable white plastic radio,
almost two decades old.
The part that used to be
an electric can opener, missing.
An appliance at half mast.

I listen over and over to opinions,
discussions, charged feelings.
In touch with numbness,
a place in my heart opens.
Sorrow condenses into grief.

I'm cooking for the evening meal.
Matzo ball soup, traditional
family holiday fare.
I started from scratch late last night.
I roll heaping tablespoon sized balls,
set them into boiling salted water,
watch them settle into the pot,
land immediately on the bottom.

Two dozen of these orbs
rest. One moves slightly,
And, I play a hopeful game.
If that one does float first,
love will prevail.

Again, I am that girl
in a summer romance,
sitting on a grassy knoll,
pulling daisy petals:
He loves me. He loves me not.

The designated matzo ball
rises first, followed by all others
in rapid progression.
Somehow, I feel lighter.

In times like these,
the ordinary asks to be seen,
to be allowed to nourish.

Illia Thompson
reprinted by permission of the author

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