The dishes are done and all the leftovers are in the fridge. The lingering smell of baking meatloaf wafts into the room from tonight's cooking. I prepared a traditional southern meal of meatloaf with a tomato glaze, creamed potatoes, and English peas. I will sleep well tonight on an overly full stomach.
Dad just came running by to give me my medications. He ate a meatloaf sandwich which he loves.
"Do you always cook like this?" he asked.
"Unfortunately, no," was my reply.
"That tastes as good as mommas always did," he said.
I fixed a plate of food for my father to carry to my mother. This meal was always one of her favorites as well.
My thoughts turned to Rosa tonight and her first evening in an unfamiliar environment. She called me to let me know she and her daughter had arrived safe and sound. Fortunately, Atlanta is just an hour up the interstate and I told her I would come get her if she outstayed her welcome. "I'm already missing you," she said over the phone. She knows just how to tug on my heartstrings. I hung up the phone and escaped to my porch to smoke a cigarillo in her honor. "I miss you, too," was on the tip of my tongue as I sat there enjoying the rich, cherry hinted smoke of that little cigar.