I chopped just one clove of garlic,
gently browned it in olive oil,
added water, salt, a pinch of pepper,
then slow cooked the broccoli down to softness
(like you taught me).
They say broccoli is good for breathing.
In a smaller pot I simmered the pastina–
those tiny dots of pasta.
When we were sick, you served that comforting porridge with an egg cooked in it.
But you can’t swallow an egg now.
I made you tea too, sweet like you like it.
You sip a few drops from the teaspoon.
You take a ceremonial bite of food.
You are done.
Perhaps at least the aroma rises up to you,
a love offering,
a sweet fragrance that pleases you as it bypasses the Oxygen tubing.
Weakness drives you back to bed.
I cover the food with a thin film of plastic wrap.
We will pretend that you will eat it later.