Page 85 of After His Eulogy

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“More than I had let myself imagine.”

“I know, Tomas.”

“Reece.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad you came.”

“I know.”

“I want to say it. Not because I think you don’t know. Every day for the rest of my life I’m going to be glad you came.”

“Adam.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad I came too.”

“Okay.”

We lie there. The light outside is going. The maple is in shadow. The soup smell is reaching us from the kitchen. He pulls the white sheet up over both of us. We don’t get dressed yet.

Later, we eat the soup. Two bowls at the small table. Hot bread he made on Sunday and froze and toasted. A glass of water for me, a beer for him. The lamp over the table is on because the sun has gone down.

“Try it.”

I try it. It’s good — the best one yet. The escarole is right; the barley has cooked the right amount; the meat has the chew that means it’s been in the broth long enough. The broth has depth. I close my eyes for a second on the first bite, and when I open them he’s watching me.

“It’s the best one,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, Adam. The best one.”

“Okay.”

“Is it —“

“Is it what.”

“Hers.”

He thinks. He looks down at his soup.

“I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s hers. I don’t know if I’ll ever know. I think it’s mine. I think she’d taste it and recognize it. She’d saythat’s not how I made it but that’s a soup I would make. It’s the soup of a person who learned to cook from her, spent two years trying to remember her soup, and made his own version.”

“Okay.”

“Is that okay.”

“Adam. It’s a good soup.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a good soup that has her in it.”

“Yeah.”

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