“That’s all right,” Amber replied. “Come with me.”
She guided him to the table beside the window.
The table with the brass plaque.
I went into the kitchen and prepared a generous bowl of my mother’s chicken-and-dumpling soup.
I added warm bread and a cup of coffee.
Then I carried everything out myself.
The man looked up at me.
“Have we met before?”
I smiled.
“We passed each other once on the street. You were kind enough to acknowledge me.”
He looked puzzled.
He clearly didn’t remember.
That was perfectly fine.
Sometimes the smallest gestures mean far more to the person receiving them than to the person offering them.
He lifted his spoon and tasted the soup.
After a moment, he closed his eyes.
“That’s wonderful,” he whispered.
“Thank you,” I replied. “It’s my mother’s recipe.”
Then I returned to the counter beneath her photograph.
As I watched him enjoy his lunch, I thought about the promise I’d made beside her hospital bed eighteen years earlier.
