Minestrone and Oreos.

A 5-Year-Old’s Delicacy 

Happiness smelled like minestrone soup
served in chipped little bowls,
and paired with thick slices of brown bread
that steamed in the cold evening air.

The warmth of rooibos tea rested in my small hands,
the mug almost too big for my grip,
but perfect for thawing my fingers.

Mother’s voice was the soundtrack;
loud, unashamed,
singing her favourite gospel songs
as if the walls were cathedrals.
Her notes filled the one-room house,
bouncing off the rusted corrugated walls
and back into our chests.
My sister and I rolled our eyes,
half-mocking, half-admiring,
but secretly comforted by the noise.

We had no dining room.
No silver cutlery.
The bucket in the corner was our toilet,
and the kitchen doubled as a bathroom
where small plastic tubs became our bathtubs.

But that night,
we had a table.
Its rust hidden under a worn sheet,
as if dressing it for a special occasion.

“Dinner is ready,”

Mother called.

We gathered, bowed our heads,
and prayed over the soup.
The bread, dipped into the broth,
tasted like hugs on a rainy day,
like someone cupping your face and saying,

“I’ve got you.”

We talked about nothing,
laughed about everything,
and time,
for once,
stood still.

Dessert was Oreos dunked in warm milk.
The way they softened and crumbled on my tongue felt like a promise,
that maybe,
just maybe,
everything would be okay.

That night, love wasn’t in a big house
or a full pantry.

It was in the sound of Mother’s voice,
the way my sister watched me with a smile,
the three of us cramped together in one bed,
our legs tangled under a single blanket,
hearts warm,
bellies full.

And so,

Whenever I forget what love and warmth feel like,

I return to the beginning when I first remember feeling it,

Buy a packet of Oreos,
pour a cup of warm milk,
and let their softness remind me.

That perhaps,

Love and warmth still exist,

Even if it appears differently.

As long as it still exists.

~ Shantey Moabelo