Roti prata

I love you the way you opened 
your apartment to a stranger: 
with faith despite knowing so little.
No prior conversations over coffee, 
no strolls in the park.

I love you the way we exchange stories
with familiarity and warmth despite years-long absences
of flesh and words.

But what I love most
is the way you warmed the skillet
on that November morning to serve a hungry woman
roti prata for breakfast.

Sharing your beloved with her
at the table, tender arms sending off
her once-lost soul to Changi Airport.
Without pretense or defense,
without knowing
if we will see each other again.

Simply that when we do, we might be a little greyer
a little less flamboyant
but no less than comrades who understand 
friendship will always be gentle hands 
making roti prata, holding space
for small, unconditional kindnesses.

For dearest Ron.