Jerome flew in
with a rice cooker in his suitcase.
Because true welcome
is a bit ridiculous—
overflowing, steaming,
offering more than anyone expects.
The table begins
at the compost pile.
Where spoiled fruit,
forgotten herbs,
and bruised generosity
begin again.
Hospitality isn’t tidy.
It’s sticky, loud,
full of smells
you didn’t choose.
But somewhere between
the rot and the rice,
the mess and the meal,
the ground is turning over.
And love is not efficient—
it wastes nothing.
Even the discarded
becomes dinner
in the hands
of the patient.
True welcome
doesn’t begin with a polished table.
It begins with the willingness
to take what’s dying
and let it feed someone else.
Everything welcome,
everything used,
everyone fed.
The Afterword 
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