The last time
Late night reflection on the food & drink I am grieving and their significance. Not remembering when the last time was. Because the last time doesn’t announce itself. I’m whiplashed. Discombobulated. In a fog. And leaning into my chronic sorrow.
The Last Time
Live every moment like it’s your last, they say.
But the last moment
rarely announces itself.
It leaves like an Irish goodbye,
slipping quietly out the door,
only to return as grief.
I don’t remember
most of my last times.
When was the last meal
I shared with my partner?
When was the last time
I cooked a sauce
passed down from my ancestors?
When was the last time
I stood over the sink
eating a juicy mango,
juice running down my lips,
my wrists,
my fingertips?
Did I savor it,
or did I assume
there would always be another?
