So she took it.
Months later, I drove back to Altoona.
When I pulled into their driveway, I could smell chicken soup from outside.
Vanessa stood over the stove with a huge pot.
Ava sat beside her writing labels on plastic lids.
CHICKEN NOODLE – FOR AUNT BETH.
CHICKEN NOODLE – FOR DAD.
CHICKEN NOODLE – FOR WHOEVER.
I pointed.
“Whoever?”
Ava looked at me.
“Grandma always said there’s always somebody who needs soup.”
I had to leave the room for a minute.
After dinner, Vanessa brought me downstairs.
Mom’s old freezer sat in the corner.
Still humming.
Still impossible to open.
Inside were rows of frozen soup.
And tucked into one corner was an older container covered in frost.
SPLIT PEA W/ HAM – VANESSA’S FAVORITE.
Vanessa touched the lid.
“It’s the last one she made for me.”
“You haven’t eaten it?”
She shook her head.
“I can’t.”
