12 The Meadow In case I die soon and fast, please know in addition to loving you, I thank you for all you’ve taught me, especially for the times you would ask for my silence while we sat in the same room together, the kitchen especially, and you’d be just about to dive into a dinner plate full of delicious brown rice you’d cooked in a new, quicker way, leaving the lid off, adding water over and over the long grains you’ve dusted with cumin and crushed red pepper and maybe cinnamon, my tongue still determining the surprising flavor, and you’d proffer a perfect number of spoonsful, placed in the little bowl hand-painted with wild red roses at the bottom, because you know I like measured amounts and because I am prone to tossing leftovers, which makes you more than cringe for the planet and its people, especially now in these pandemic times. I think of Dad, how he would have been relieved I finally followed his advice on how to be with you: Try silence, he said. Cook together. Or just taste what he has made. How quietly he shows his love.
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