a true story about loss & repair
The Last Bite
She saved the best bite for last, and now her fork is just hanging there in the air.
the realization
I kept trying to make the ending smaller so it wouldn't hurt her. It only made her quieter. She didn't need me to shrink it, she needed someone to sit in it with her.
She'd been saving it the whole meal. The one perfect corner piece, pushed to the side of her plate, guarded like treasure while she worked through the boring parts. Then she got there. And her fork just stopped. Halfway up, hovering. She wasn't refusing it. She couldn't do it.
have you ever felt this way too?
So I did the thing I always do. It's one bite, sweetie. We'll make more tomorrow. I said it in my brightest, most reasonable voice, the one that's supposed to make a problem disappear. The more I smoothed it flat, the smaller she got. Shoulders in. Chin down. Still holding that fork like it weighed something.
I stopped talking. I pulled the chair out and sat down next to her instead of across from her, and for a second neither of us said anything. Then, mostly to the plate: sometimes I don't want the good ones to end either.
She didn't answer. But after a while she nudged the plate toward me, just a little, and we split it. Half and half. She leaned her head on my arm while she chewed. Both of us a little sad about it, both of us okay.
what I found myself saying
""Sometimes I don't want the good ones to end either." I said it to the plate."
"I stopped explaining and just sat down next to her."
""Want to split it?" Half for her, half for me."
