The door opens and he strides in. Always, like a benevolent king.
“Just lentils,” I say apologetically, as he walks past.
I hear the door of his room close. A few minutes later he comes out.
“Sistah Joan…,” he steps into the doorway softly.
“Lentils?,” I offer.
I choose the ceramic bowl, with the glaze dripping azure and Garden-of-the-Gods red.
He takes it with two hands. He closes his eyes, and with his nose over the bowl, takes in the full essence with a deep breath. Then another.
“Ah, bless… .” He shakes his head, “Lentils, Sistah Joan!”