The Downstairs Plate

Journal

I thought I would be alone for Eid.

Then the knock came.

Mrs. Rahman from downstairs held a plate with foil still warm.

"You don't skip this day," she said. "Not in my building."

We sat on my floor because I didn't have a table yet.

She didn't comment. She poured tea.

She asked about my mother without making it an exam.

I told the truth. She nodded like that was also food.

We called home on speaker. Two kitchens, one greeting.

Eid Mubarak landed in both rooms at once.

She left the plate and took the empty cups.

The apartment smelled like someone lived here.