Lentil soup for several days after my grandmother died

My grandmother taught me to make lentil soup when I was nine. She died. The day after the funeral I made her lentil soup. I was not hungry. I still knew the steps when I did not know what else to do.

I soaked the lentils the way she soaked them. I cut the onion in quarters the way she cut it, not the way I usually cut it. I added the cumin and tomato she always used and left out anything she never used. I made it her way because that was the method I still remembered.

I made it her way because that was the recipe I still remembered.

I ate a bowl standing at the stove. It tasted like her lentils. I ate another bowl. I put the rest in the fridge and made it again the next day. I made it repeatedly for several days after the funeral. I did not make it because I wanted lentil soup. Making it was the closest thing I had to being in her kitchen.

Later I was eating the whole pot. I had not eaten a full meal since before she died. The lentils got me from one day to the next. They were soft and warm and had calories and protein. I noticed that the kitchen smelled like hers and that my hands were following her method.

Later I stopped making it every day and started eating other foods again. I still make the lentil soup about once a month, her way, with onion in quarters, cumin, and tomato. That is the recipe of hers I kept. The grief is still there. The soup does not remove it. For those several days it was the only thing I cooked, and the only reason I ate anything at all.