Soup

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By Allison Maruska

I crumble six crackers into the bowl. Six crackers per ladle, just like Mom used to make.

Steam rises off the red liquid as I pour it. A stray drip hits my glove. I wipe it on my blanket.

I carry my bowl to the sofa and peek outside, trading heat for daylight. Snow covers the ruins. Brisk air blows through the broken pane.

I drop the window covering and hold my bowl near my face. The warmth and smell take me back. Laughter echoes in my memory.

Shaking, I take a spoonful.

Just like Mom used to make.

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