Word-vomiting during quarantine

I smile to myself remembering
that one time I convinced you to taste
the chili chicken dish I cooked, so
you took a small bite, with your
front teeth, then chewed it carefully, then started nodding with
satisfaction,
and I was grinning as if I won a million dollars.

Then I tear up.
I choke, the oxygen in
my lungs freeze for a second.
I can't cook for you anymore. You
know, those hours we spent in the kitchen,
me the chef, and you the food taster and jar opener and neck kisser,
the smell of simmered potatoes, braised
onions and grilled cheese,
the few but happy afternoons when we
prepared the small dinner table together.
You know, those are memories one
does not simply forget, one does not forget at all.

I wonder what you would have
said about this crisis.
"If god wants us to die, we are
going to die. We can't escape it."
Those would have been your words.
But you're wrong, god put me in
the face of death one hundred times,
and I refused to let it reach me.

You wanted to go, didn't you?

I saw a soldier the other day in
the bus, he was wearing his suit, he
had your hands.
He probably was coming back
from the battle to his town. I couldn't help
not thinking that this might have been you.
You could've come back.
Have you ever seen someone
tear up in a bus? Wanting to shout
out loud so the whole world could hear.

I refused to let death take me.
I escaped it while you couldn't, and
this is why I always wonder if I made the
right choice. If I should've given up.
If I should've escaped feeling so dead without you, instead.