What leaves a mother who dies suddenly?
The ignition button pressed for a washing machine has finished the cycle of colorful, discovered after three days.
A pan of lasagne ready for Christmas Day.
A fridge and pantry full, as usual.
red decor, this is indeed unusual, scattered around the rooms.
A new quilt on my bed ready, waiting for my return.
A closet, my own, packed with presents still to wrap the return ... for Life, she thinks the day before.
Chestnuts boiled for ravioli and toasted almonds to put in dark chocolate.
The scent of my room on the shelf, tacitly indicating that I can put it, because I love it so much.
Its clock on the dresser. There is still, after two months.
The phone call turned to me, who are far away. Always.
The polished silver candlesticks.
A crib made by my father with great care on his claim.
clothes hanging in the closet and gray silk scarf that I brought from Vietnam folded neatly in a drawer.
Too many things unsaid.
disappointment that he never disposed of.
much attention that he never had. Seeking desperately
two lines written by her. I find a thousand recipes.
Two lines all for me, I flatter myself. Something that maybe I would be sentimental star bad but I could sent to me.
Then I realize it's all there in the care with which sets things up, food ready for the holidays.
So he always thought of us.
His love is food.
Now we have to feed us alone.
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