more than soup

There's a story that's been told and retold about the Wednesday evening I sat at the dinner table straight through my favorite extracurricular activity because I would not take a bite of the tomato soup that had been served. I loved gymnastics and I was pretty sure I hated tomato soup and I still wonder from whom Tolliver inherited his stubborn streak.

Tollie asked twice recently if I'd make tomato soup, the "good kind" like I made for Andy once he recovered from Covid enough to regain appetite and taste. The kind with sauteed onions and garlic, chunks of roasted tomatoes, heavy cream and fresh basil.

Yesterday I made the soup. I didn't take a single bite, but sometimes we can tell people we love them without saying a word. I hope he remembers the hot bowl in front of him, a metaphorical hug, the same way I remember missing gymnastics all the times my mom did make the things I asked for.