the tuna caserole

when I moved into the new house,
a woman,
I think her name was Stella,
brought me over a tuna casserole.
it was heavy
in a nine by nine pyrex dish.
yellow. I remember my mother
having one just like it.
tuna casserole, she said smiling,
welcome to the neighborhood.
she may have opened with the word
howdy. I remember there
was a flower in her hair
and she was wearing a flowery
dress that blew around
in the wind. it's
still warm, she said, so no
no need to heat it up.
I told her thank you very much.
and she said.
just wanted you to feel at
home. the gang is having a little
picnic this Saturday, you're
welcome to come. no need
to bring anything.
she pointed to her house
at the corner, that's me,
she said. those daffodils are mine.
thank you stella, I told her.
I just might stop by.
I could see her looking around
the inside of my house, as
she stood at the door, trying
to figure out what my deal was.
it took a while but I finally
threw the tuna casserole
down the drain and washed
out the dish. I set it in
the cupboard with some other
bowls and dishes. whenever I open up
the door I see it, gleaming
clean and yellow. I should
return it at some point
and get to know these
friendly people in
the neighborhood. just not
quite ready yet. it's only been
fourteen years.