At the kitchen island
my son and I shred cheese,
chop chicken. He showers it
with adobo, lime, chili powder.
At first, we’re silent, syncopated,
folding, laying flat our hunger.
Then he tells me a tiny tale
of a coworker teaching him
to season it like this.
After hours, before close,
they cook there together,
a work family.
Here at home we sit, eat
and I am seeing this
as the easiest meal ever made,
the two of us at our ease.
I begin to see our lives
like this: we let each other in,
we sit, share these few days
of winter to memory,
our hearts’ timeless table.
After “Gathering” by Natasha Trethewey
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