my nieceās soup
I couldnāt remember my nieceās name. Sara? Betsy? No, no, it was something more interesting. I even confessed that to her parents, the forgetting. But we still had this bond, my niece and I. Later on we were eating dinner, or actually the whole extended family was, and I was in the kitchen prepping a bowl of soup for my niece because she said sheād eat what I did. I could hear my family talking to each other about how I couldnāt eat what they made because it was all noodles and there was concern in their voice. Whether it was concern that they didnāt give me options or concern for my mental health I donāt know. When I took the soup out to my niece so she could finally eat I saw she was already surrounded by foods sheād probably already filled up on: rice, macaroni, even something that looked like pudding. I was sad and gave her the soup and said I hoped sheād eat it because it was really yummy. Then I left.










