By Abigail Rudibaugh
She asked what I needed.
I said, “I’m fine. Thank you though.”
So hours later I found cookies
porch-sitting on my property.
I didn’t need them.
Chocolate chip’s nutritional value
to survival is minimal.
The serving size on the plate
to those they would feed.
Still they were there, wrapped in plastic,
placed on the metal-ridged door frame,
covered in care, ready to cover some more.
I did not realize how cold the wind
how much air gusted through my doorway
when I picked up the plate.
Even the blue wool blanket shivered.
But now I have a new sweater knitted
with the time it takes to decide how much flour,
when to roam the grocery aisle
the moment to preheat the oven
re-routing the map to cross the threshold
of my front lawn and my grief
entering my reality by her creativity.
The time multiplying into a million threads
of hugs that nobody says they need, like
cookies on a plate
brightening the gray
reblooming the flowers
wilting in their vase.