March 18, 2012

The door opens and he strides in. Always, like a benevolent king.

“Just lentils,” I say apologetically, as he walks past.

I hear the door of his room close. A few minutes later he comes out.

“Sistah Joan…,” he steps into the doorway softly.

“Lentils?,” I offer.

“Ah, bless…”

I choose the ceramic bowl, with the glaze dripping azure and Garden-of-the-Gods red.

He takes it with two hands. He closes his eyes, and with his nose over the bowl, takes in the full essence with a deep breath. Then another.

“Ah, bless…  .” He shakes his head, “Lentils, Sistah Joan!”


About the Author joangregerson

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