I don’t know how it got there
But by the time I got home
and made my way down the slippery, slate steps in the dark
dodging stringy cobwebs
and awaiting the dreaded crunch of snail squashed under foot
it was there at my door.
All crunchy yellowy-brown and browny-yellow
Framed by pebbly, lumpy brown.
I don’t think it was made with Nonna’s recipe
because when I sat my achey back down on the first chair
and lifted cold lasagne to my mouth
there was an intruder
I am pretty sure that is not Nonna’s way.
Do you remember those tin on a string phones we used to make when we were children?
A tin at each end held tight to the ear
hoping and wishing and imagining that you could hear your friend at the other end?
Well that lasagna
It was like those tin can phones
But what it whispered from very far away
I love you
I am thinking of you
You are not alone
I am sorry for your loss.
Eat your vegetable’s! You will be needing them.
So as I sat wearing my weariness
surrounded by swirling layers of sadness
Eating lasagne I could not taste
that as death cast its shadow across my dreams
I was not alone.