What She Meant by Enough

She called to ask if I remembered

the pork and cabbage—paydays, the smell

of the apartment. I answered

yes, without knowing if I could tell

the truth of it. Spent the evening

trying to rebuild the smell from nothing.

Something fatty, slow, retrieving

almost the right scent, almost touching

what it was. She used to hold the lid

at an angle when she lifted it—

steam going sideways. She always did

that. The window catching it.

That Friday smell. The week

surviving itself. That's what it was.

I said yes. She mentioned, oblique

as she gets, that the recipe was

lost. The card. But it doesn't matter,

she said, I know it by heart. Heart

caught for a second—went flatter—

then she moved on. I wrote that part

down before she did: heart, payday,

steam going sideways, the lid

held at an angle, the Friday

smell I can't rebuild. What I did

say was yes. Before I knew

if it was even true.