Hungry?

Grief made a meal for me once.
Her reputation being legendary,
I both feared and anticipated what she lay before me.
I sat in the kitchen and watched her cook.
She was jarring as she banged pots,
Rattled her intrusive golden ladle.
The aroma was something more of a stench-decay and broccoli.
She invited me to the table and served me with heart-breaking solemnity.
Before me was placed a gold-plated bowl, golden flatware, and linen napkins.
Her face was serene.
She was devastatingly quit as she poured her broth into my bowl.
I watched the brownish slog fall in clumps.
There was the smell again – decay, broccoli.
“Do I have to eat this?” I asked her.
Her reply a silent smile, a deafening affirmation.
I spooned the gruel into my mouth.
It was hard to swallow. It stuck. It burned.
I did not know if I should chew it or let it slide down my throat.
I wanted to stop.
Grief checked on me.
It was bitter to swallow. Truly, truly, bitter.
A bowlful of experience that has stuck to my ribs and nourished me since.