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FIRST PLACE
Love and the Lunch Pail
By Kathy L. Altman
King George, Virginia
She moved into the kitchen
graceless, hurting,
her slippers whispering
against the tile,
her long nightgown
tangled in her thin legs.
Her gray hair was confused,
but soft and shiny.
She started the coffee,
her hands quicker than her thoughts.
She opened the icebox
and poked in it quietly--
musn’t wake him too early.
She cuddled the lunchmeat
and the yellow mustard
and a tomato to slice.
She crafted a sandwich
with practiced hands,
removing the crust
to keep for the birds.
She wrapped the layers
in an envelope of foil
and found his lunch pail
under the sink.
She cradled the thermos
as she carried it over
and filled it cautiously
with steaming black juice,
her tongue on her lip.
Her fingers clenched white,
she capped the thermos,
then strapped it into the hollow
that was the lid of the pail.
She stacked a banana
and the sandwich packet
and a raisin-filled cookie.
She closed the battered lid
and snapped the fasteners shut
with needle-stuck fingers.
Her pale lips curved--
he wouldn’t go hungry.
She poured herself coffee
as he came into the light,
gray and weary
and familiar.
He kissed her cheek
in warm appreciation.
When she shuffled out,
placid and sapped,
he patiently unpacked
the faded silver pail
as he had each morning
in the fragile year
since he’d retired.
Copyright (c) 2003 for
the author, all rights reserved. |
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