Amends Regret lingers, niggles. Yellow lilies on the table, gone brown in the vase. The garden we talk about, endlessly, but never begin, deterred by tough sod. On the edge of the walk, the wheelbarrow full of stones waits like an undelivered apology. Within, the floor needs scrubbing and only hands and knees will do the job. I know that forgiveness is a simple meal— a salad, a boiled potato, a glass of tea. Easy to prepare, to offer. That the silence afterward will satisfy, perhaps even nourish.