Rice and water- potato and water-
Pasta and water-

These were the things of their dinners on
Nights when I was not well.

My dinner was the water-
Not rich, nor thick; not warm nor cold.

“It will make you better,” they said.
“Drink it. Drink it.”

All those smells -the aroma of the feast-

Filled the air and the sounds of their
Happy voices and excited fragments of

Floated down to my room
And under my door

Where I sat propped upon pillows,

Muscles filled with intangible aches
From lack of work or movement in play

And I listened idly to a word here or
Hoping for some form

Of entertainment,

To be a part of things -their thing again.

Elizabeth Mozley

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