Zedekiah

(Context: Jeremiah 39:7)

This morsel is lamb, cooked in a mint yogurt, I believe, with a hint of cardamom. As usual, it is only a single bite, as small as the last segment of my thumb. Still, chewing as gently as I can, I can hold it in my mouth for a hundred heartbeats, savoring its texture, its flavor, memorizing it, until it dissolves and drifts down my throat to give my stomach a hint of its joy.

The rest of the day’s meal, as always: a loaf of bread, a bowl of lentils (still warm, this time, with sufficient salt), and a jar with enough water to last the day. The morsel was tucked under the bread, as it often is. The tiny gifts do not appear every day, but often enough that the anticipation is worthwhile, and that the experience of that day’s morsel or, if there was not one that day, the most recent, is fresh enough in memory to recall and relive throughout the day and into the night. Perhaps they are scraps retrieved from the king’s table, perhaps from a peasant’s, as one might toss a scrap to a dog. I don’t mind. I am satisfied. I am thankful. I am unashamed.