Lunch

My eyes focused acutely on the food impaled on my approaching fork.
I bit into it. I felt my incisors slice through the satisfying
resistance. Even before the piece had neared my lips, my mouth had
salivated it?s welcome. Now, I savoured the satisfying warmth in my
mouth, tastebuds almost overwhelmed by fulfilled anticipation. I closed
my eyes, letting the taste carry me through my memories to a place not
often recalled. When I tasted this last, there was honeysuckle in the
air. We had spent the morning reading poetry amidst the long, end of
summer grass. Your white cotton dress had tangled with a thistle, and
we laughed because we were reading Rabbie Burns. I remember that the
whole of your family had been at the funeral that afternoon. Some
thirty people spanning the generations. There were toasts to poor old
Auntie Lucinda, and then the waiters carried her in. But, my darling,
she was not nearly as tender as you. As we sat there, your mourners and
diners, we remembered you with each mouthful. Each of us, finally
taking a piece of you with us, inside us.