Communion

Every night I come home hungry he has a meal prepared. And he waits. For the espression on my face as I walk in the door when the fragrance of his food invites me inside. I walk in and see plates, forks and knives placed neatly, carefully on the bar between his warm kitchen and his family room where the large back window catches the last orange rays of the setting November sun. He waits as I change from my work clothes into something slouchy and comfortable, and he keeps busy, arranging our meals into perfect pictures that welcome me to break bread with him. He waits as I take my first bite; I chew slowly, I swallow gratefully, allowing his eyes to take in the slowly dawning pleasure on my face, as he notices how much salt or pepper I add so he can make adjustments for the next day. He waits for the small joy of my appetite, and for the sight of me spooning second helpings on my plate, and as we eat he makes thoughtful preparation for the meal he will fix for us in 24 hours, the next meal he will fix to show me what I will mean to him tomorrow.
This is how I know he loves me.
He waits to hear me thank him as I push myself slowly away from my plate, while I carefully mop up the very last morsel of food with a piece of his home-made corn bread, the one with his diced peppers folded throughout for an extra special taste and zing. I know I can never thank him, not enough. You see, I know just how much he is loving me. I waited 25 years for a thank you that never came.
But I do thank him, with all my heart, with every bite, with every dish I wash when we are through. I remember what it means to wait, and he remembers what it means to be hungry. This is how two old lovers, who have tasted of sadness, share the sweetness of a simple meal before winter surely comes.