he ate the soup
you made for him
a few weeks
before you died. it was
sitting in the freezer
with a strip of masking tape
over the lid, his father’s name
written in your hand.

before october last year,
he used to call it
grandma rocket soup
because he thought she made it
when the whole time,
it was you. but when she died,
he replaced grandma’s name
with yours and now
he eats it quietly,
taking his time, as if
savoring every bite.

he thanked you, too, you know,
as soon as he finished
the bowl. he ate the entire thing,
the last bowl of soup
you made
for him.