I understand that smell is linked to memory; the workings of it are unknowable to me. The butter in the pan foamed as it began to burn and now I remember what I ate during the last night of your stay in the hospital. You said that it was okay for me to take one of your food tickets because you weren't eating anything anyways. I tried to think of what you might have wanted to taste at that moment. The elevator I took downstairs was made to accommodate gurneys and wheelchairs, but I was in neither. It was about 3:00am and the cafeteria was mostly empty. I was going to eat your last meal; it was a task with too much meaning for me at the time. I put a few spoonfuls of egg custard inside of my mouth. Then I walked outside and traced my way around the hospital. And I fucking prayed. I hated myself for it.
I am still eating your last meal. You never told me what you might have wanted.