The Last Scoop

The air hangs thick

with garlic and too many voices,

a low hum beneath the clink

of forks on paper plates.

She stood by the table,

her floral dress a shield,

watching the macaroni bake

dwindle, then reach for it,

a quick, clean scoop.

The ceramic dish, still warm,

reflected the kitchen light,

a clean white streak

where her spoon had been.

She smiled, a tight seam,

and carried her small triumph

away, towards the door.

Leaving only crumbs

and the lingering smell of onion.