I cut and trimmed and pulled and hauled. I took the bananas down, cutting their great stalks with a kitchen knife and as it sliced through the pulpy stems, water poured forth.
I do not think I have lost so much in the way of my potted plants. Even my giant begonias still have a good leaf or two. I would be so heartbroken to have lost those, started with such patience from one leaf so long ago.
My precious mango is fine.
I simmered what was left of a small chicken with five cloves of garlic and salt and when the meat fell of the bones, I added soy sauce and the leftover Pho which Jessie and I brought home last week from the place where the lady calls everyone honey and sweetheart.
You like my Pho, she says. It very good.
It's not on the menu. You have to ask.
I just ate a huge bowl of the resulting soup and it may have been the best thing I ever ate. The cilantro and bean sprouts still a bit crisp and the cloves of garlic soft and mellow in my mouth and the tiny bits of jalapeno I had torn with my fingers when we were in the restaurant were hot and good and I tipped the bowl to drink the broth.
More than plenty.