Marriage at Midlife

We start with the water boiling, add salt, enough to fill the well of my hand. Then the pasta--some wine to drink and some for the sauce. Onions, chopped so fine we are moved to tears. And garlic that lingers for days on the fingertips. I crush plum tomatoes, small hearts in my bare hands.

This is the ritual, me and you holding space between us like a child. Fresh herb and spice. Broken bread and sweet butter. Me loving you. Then past nightfall, savoring the aftertaste--the meal consumed. Dishes left in the sink.