The Meal Rota

I tried to sign up for the thirty-day meal rota, one day after the shiva ended, but was too late.

I close my eyes and imagine myself carrying a tray of cooked food, still steaming from the oven, walking one block to deliver it to their house, but unable to get through the throng of people—the army of kindness already there to help.

I return home, despondent. Was it for me or for them?

Both. I feel I need to do something—anything—to help them.

Hold them, feed them—but what they are starving for, none of us can give them: their fallen son.

Our street on the day of the funeral