I start accepting food from the neighbors:
Handful of tomatoes before they rot.
Annual s’more at the bonfire. I savor
odd things—quick knock at the door, apricot
pit in the window. Small shrines appear.
There are flats of strawberries. Homemade
broth to help a harmed esophagus heal.
We all mend, somewhere, in the exchange.
Little gifts evolve into meals, board games
after lunch. One day my son is with grand-
mother neighbors, pulling weeds in the yard.
I’m at their side before I understand.
We kneel together, chewing on mint leaves,
like it’s no miracle, like it’s ordinary.
--Megan Nichols
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