crumbs.

You cooked for me once, in the earliest days of our togetherness. 

Pasta, no cream. Chocolate chip cookies to finish.

I leaned against the molding of your archway, not yet confident where I could take up space in what belonged to you, and told you how touched I was when you listened to my nervous ramblings.

Meat and gluten were fine, but I'm sensitive to dairy.

It was one of the kindest gestures I had been shown — hand-rolling noodles with one hand while handing me a glass of wine with the other.

You pointed to the breakfast nook, inviting me to sit and watch you move gracefully through the kitchen. Telling me about your work day over the sauce bubbling in the pan.

I don’t know you now. 

In hindsight, I can see that you gave me very little and I continued to build an entire future with it. 

You see, the simple act of being remembered and heard had never happened to me before. 

With vigor, and without graveling 

I took your crumbs and made a meal.