A couple men boiled water on her gas stove. One chopped onions with a pocketknife like he’d done it a thousand times. Another stirred a pot and asked her, softly, what seasonings she used.
Keisha pulled out her mother’s battered recipe box.
The fried chicken card was stained and loved.
Her mother’s handwriting curled across it like a prayer.
Keisha didn’t realize she was crying until a tear hit the index card.
She wiped it fast, embarrassed.
Mike saw anyway.
He didn’t comment.
He just nodded like he understood what it meant to hold onto a dead person through a piece of paper.
When the food hit the table, the house changed.
The smell alone warmed the walls.
Men who looked hard on the outside ate like starving kids.
Marcus, drawn by the scent, slid out of Keisha’s arms and toddled closer.
Tommy sat on the floor and started stacking empty cans into a little tower for him.
