I look in the freezer; it is well stocked with frozen lumps of stuff I cannot eat. Look here are a few bits of Chinese leftovers. Spring Rolls. Why didn’t we throw them out? They would happier in the bin by the back shed to come alive again, squirming with life until the bin man comes to take the stinking mess away to start a new life somewhere else but not with me.
What is this? I try to work out what the meat is. I finally guess the answer. It is a rack of lamb. I think it should go in the oven and be roasted for a bit and then cut up into little choplets, all succulent, tender, oozing with fat and eaten with roast potatoes and to counteract all that fat, some steamed vegetables. But I can’t contemplate all this raw meat anymore. It sickens me. I am not hungry. I close the freezer door and let it all mourn for you in a cold sadness. While I mourn for you in sadness too, neither cold nor hot, but numb. You could even say that I am raw too. Tender or tough? I haven’t made up my mind on that one.
You were tender; soft as a ripe plum, oozing with love that was all for me alone. Now you have gone. I don’t know where you have gone but wherever it is, are you laughing now? Laughing at me as I wonder what to do with all this raw meat?