A Box from Home.

Apricots.

An Apple.

Pretzels.

Nuts.

A few fresh cherry tomatoes from the garden.

 Granola bar.

Some cookies.

They are place into that stained, square-foot compartment in random fashion,

apricots cushioning the apple from bumping and damaging its skin.

There is still room for the main course:

usually the leftovers from dinner.


I hesitate over the colorful crew and think a little prayer over them,

a prayer for my husband's day tomorrow,

something I try to remember to do as I pack his lunch,
although sometimes in my weary hurry to get to bed,
I forget.

But I shouldn't.

 He has to eat his lunch away from the comforts of home:

the kitchen table and chairs,
the sound of birds and the rooster crowing,
the atmosphere of home.

It is a quick few moments over his future day,

a recognition that he is away at work
so that we may enjoy a satisfying lunch in a home we can call ours,
sitting on chairs that have the price tags removed.

A small prayer for a large duty,

greatly appreciated although not nearly thanked enough for it.

A small thing,

a packed lunch with the power to change the world,

or

at least,

hopefully his.

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