The Church Potluck Ranking Is Silent and Real

church potluck. my mac and cheese disappeared. susan's "salad" still full. we don't speak rankings aloud. southern women communicate through empty pans. grief group after in the fellowship hall. casseroles hold both. the grocery store played a song we used to mock together and i had to leave the aisle. people talk about closure like it is a door you walk through once. today it was a revolving door. i sat in the car until my breathing matched the windshield wipers. home looked the same and that still surprises me every time. a neighbor waved from across the street with the careful kindness people offer when they do not know what to say. i waved back. dishes in the sink from yesterday because function is uneven. sleep came in pieces. morning coffee tasted like habit more than pleasure and i drank it anyway because routines are scaffolding.

Church potluck. My mac and cheese disappeared. Susan's salad still full. We do not speak rankings aloud.

Southern women communicate through empty pans.

Grief group meets after in the fellowship hall. Casseroles hold both celebration and consolation in the same aluminum tray.

I am not only cooking for flavor. I am cooking for visibility: proof that I can still feed people, still show up, still belong to a room that knew me before loss rewrote the menu.

Susan smiled. I smiled. The competition is gentle and eternal.

People want grief to look like progress toward a finish line. Some days progress is doing the dishes. Some days it is not. Both count.

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