by Eva Romero
She collected rosemary, parsley, and some marjoram, but could find no thyme, or that other herb, so her soup would not quite turn out like the song. Instead, Jane decided the broth would be the sky. At heavens-length and many-layered, it would soon be full of all sorts of beans and leaves, mosses, and even branches. Her family would love it, of course, save for her husband who had left in a wave of coronary glory the month before, and her children, now away, who only left messages over the phone, and the puppy, snarling from a distance. Jane did not cry. She oiled the iron soup kettle, and wondered whether the earth ever missed its herbs.
Eva Romero is sure about some things, but others, not so much.