Charlie closed the door slowly
behind him to not wake the napping
babies.
"How a-ar-are you fe-feeling?"
He sat next to me on the couch.
I held the bowl of soup in
my palms; the warmth of it
made me feel so much better.
"What's the soup? I've never
had it before, but it tastes
amazing."
"It's call-e-ed borscht. It's made
from beets. Whe-e-n-n my mom
too-k-k a vaca-a-cation to Russia during
the winterti-time, she told me
everyone would j-ju-just eat this. The
bee-beets give it th-the reddish c-co-color."
"Thank you for bringing it.
I really wasn't expecting it," I
smiled at him through my
opaque mind.
We listened to the
crackling of the fireplace
and the occasional sneezes
from me.
YOU ARE READING
shades of red
Poetrywhen you have too many thorns, all you can do is paint them in red, because, maybe then, they will look like petals [sequel to shades of blue]
