my father was ill, with uncertain breath
I’d travel and visit, talk of his wealth
five sons worth
his barrel laugh now gone
bounced through the years
has settled with permanence in my minds ear

but condolence is of little use
and words require more than a little juice

so with mushrooms and stock and buttermilk
I’d concoct some soup
and slice onion thin, with liver sausage
on mustard painted rye
a communion of sorts
it was sustenance, repaid.