He would eat them
in a small, white bowl,
the dumplings slathered in sour cream.
He would lean into the steam,
savoring each bite
until a great sigh escaped his lips.
Only afterwards would he speak:
maybe a funny story
or a joke
or some explanation of how a camera worked
or what history has to teach us
this day. We would eat his words
in enormous bites
until we, too, had taken our fill.
This, this
is what I miss.