I cried over lasagna tonight.
The lasagna wasn’t bad. It was fine. Not my favorite, but a perfectly serviceable dinner.
No, the tears were born of memories.
Ambrose made a fine lasagna. Not often. In fact, I think he may have only made it for me once or twice. But it was good.
And he had a great story about lasagna. A time that he watched a man prepare lasagna from scratch while drinking wine and sitting at a wooden table set up on the man’s driveway, in Morocco if my memory serves. The best lasagna he’d ever had. And the way he told the story was special.
It wasn’t that the lasagna was like Ambrose’s. Just the fact of lasagna. The texture and look and smell. And tears were just rolling down my cheeks.
I’m glad my dad understands that when the tears come, it’s time for stories. To bring Ambrose to me with my own words. To hold him as I speak. To miss him, and celebrate him, and share him, as only I can.