And into the dwindling remains of Bonnie's homemade soup is added a cup of orzo discovered in our pantry behind the jar of dried beans and the spices we keep for the chai we intend to brew when we have the patience and the energy, the allspice berries and star anise and peppercorns and cinnamon sticks, their presence like that of the orzo: as comforting in anticipation as it is in consumption

And so we dole it all out sparingly to sustain that balance, only half of the orzo goes into the soup that has fed us for three days now, in between long naps where we step away from our ever-presence and allow this virus to have its way with us, wondering idly as one does when a cold has dampened the ability to think straight, is this covid? 

There were tests in the drawer, their use-by date long past, and who needs more unreliable info? We have what we need: a friend like Bonnie and soup like this, fragrant with bits of garden carrot and green beans, brimming now with plump little pasta seeds, as dependable as that boring PBS documentary that distracts us and then puts us to sleep, empty bowl on the table beside us, the best of all possible outcomes.