By Rachel Armes-McLaughlin
I was sitting down to dinner
when you left this earth.
I had just bathed my daughter
and looked at the time.
I could smell the roasted vegetables.
Dinner was later than usual—
The chicken took forever,
and the cabbage burned.
The leftovers are in my fridge,
but I don’t think they’ll be eaten.
Maybe it’s silly, but I keep thinking
about how I cooked for you
and your daughter,
long before mine was born.
You didn’t like to cook meat yourself,
but I think you would have liked the chicken.
I wish you could have been here,
instead of where you were
and where you are now.
Rachel Armes-McLaughlin, a grant writer with the UAMS Institute for Digital Health and Innovation, has written poetry for over 20 years. Her work is published in Loblolly Press; Middle Mouse Press; Medicine and Meaning, where she reviews poetry; and a Central Arkansas Library System anthology, with one poem nominated for Best of the Net. Rachel lives in Little Rock, Arkansas, with her husband, daughter, and cats.