Chicken Marsala

I've had the ingredients in my fridge for a week now.  I just couldn't bring myself to use them.  They'd been all packed up and ready to make for someone we loved.  I didn't want to make it and eat it ourselves.  It'd taste like something broken.  The girl and I, we put on our comfy cozies and I taught her how, savoring the times with her.  She's not a kid now.  She looks me in the eye and asks good questions and cleans up after the mess we make.  She has become a companion that challenges me, comes alongside, makes me laugh.  I'm extra glad she's beside me for this one.  She tells me to make it anyway.

We chopped and stirred and added this and that and mashed the potatoes all lumpy and buttery.

We set the table and the glow of the sunlight sat on the air and colored it a misty yellow.  "STOP.  Don't eat yet.  I want to take your picture."  She's gotten used to that.  The camera snapped and froze the feeling in the air.  This meal wasn't supposed to be like this.  There was a certain jagged feeling.  We both felt it but we didn't say it.

"Marsala wine comes from a seaport town in Sicily with a name that literally means Port of God," I read from google, trying to find meaning deeper than a meal that hurt to eat it.  I smile a little to myself.  Leave it to Him, to put Himself in the middle of it.  I'm comforted by it without making an analogy.  Port of God is good enough for me.  I nestle there and take cover.  We finished the meal and washed up the dishes, putting the leftovers in their cold place.  I'm irritated that there's some left.  I wanted it to be over with.  

Chicken Marsala will never be the same meal again for me.  It's love free of charge, even if it's prepared from a distance.