to readMarch 18, 2010
“A Small Good Thing,” which Jessie sent to me today because she thought of it and it reminded her of me. I read it, and I loved it. I want all of the sentences in my writing to be like these: “They didn’t say anything. But they seemed to feel each other’s insides now, as though the worry had made them transparent in a perfectly natural way.”
Food is such an enjoyable part of my day now. Jessica and I eat pho every chance we get, and I love having others cook for me. But when Clark was sick and dying, I didn’t think about eating at all. MomPam would shove an english muffin with peanut butter on it into my hands every morning. “EAT!” she’d say, forcefully. There were a few times that I can remember in hospice where, though I couldn’t manage to feed myself, others brought me food, and I took such comfort from eating it. Lili and Ann brought me barbeque and fried okra. On a different day, hunger struck, and all I wanted was a cheeseburger. It was the middle of the afternoon. I called my friend Basla, who is vegan, and she brought me one. And I hadn’t yet become friends with my dear Amanda, but I woke up from a nap one day to find a bag of Whole Foods groceries outside the door to Clark’s room. She’d brought me grapeleaves and frozen Annie’s and fruit. I appreciated these gestures more than I can say. “Appreciate” doesn’t even feel like the right word.