A friend told me today that she would love to make soup for James Baldwin in the great beyond. She is known for wanting to cook soup for those she adores. She said something similar when Timothée Chalamet was at the U; she also wanted to knit him a sweater. I can picture her in her kitchen chopping chicken and stanzas and pouring in hot broth with haikus. Her comment made me wonder who I’d make soup for. Who would I give my ladle of love and lust to? Do they deserve my sautéed stories? My strained stories? My stories of fresh tomato soup and grilled cheese? Are my words worth their appetite? Is this why I write? To feed the mouths of those who are starved and deprived of nourishment from a creatives garden? Yes. Because there is someone out there who needs a bowl of my soup. To slurp through their reality and feel the warmth of words slide down their throats. For now, I will make soup for myself. I think I need it the most.