Lunch with Christian

I promised to join him once each week for lunch.He'd rather have a sandwich made by me than to have a Chic-Fil-A.I am after all his Aunt, the chef. A sandwich made especially for him is a very big deal in his nine-year-old mind. He introduces me as the "cupcake lady" to one of his little friends.At twelve-twenty, I follow him to the cafeteria line where we wait for chocolate milk and tater-tots.I notice that he gets enough to share. Today he wears an orange shirt that is much too large. Oddly, the holes on both shoulders sadden me and I think that he deserves so much more, that she deserved so much more.I vow to throw out that old shirt first chance I get.He smiles with the same sapphire eyes that his mother had.In my mind I silently vow to do my best by her some way, somehow.Perhaps I am overly sensitive right now. I am noticing the little things. Are his shoes tied? What are the thoughts running through his little mind?How can I offer comfort in this tragic time? My thoughts race to lemonade, chess and checker games.To puppy kisses and heart-felt good boy wishes.I am saddened that his Mother died and I hate the fact that she chose her tragic death by suicide. I am broken by the burdens that are left behind.Burdens too heavy for this little boy to carry at the age of nine.Still I find the strength to meet him, to stand there at his side. I stand there in her place, in this cafeteria line.