I step into her small apartment, book lined and bright in the late afternoon. I notice the skin on her arms is translucent and tinged with blue. This is the first time I have seen her since her diagnosis of bone cancer. She is just home, exhausted from treatments, and the television is on. It is September 11, 2001, and I have made sloppy joes. I slip into the kitchen and see that her refrigerator is full of food, almost untouched. I see that my food is not needed, and wonder how long my meal will sit in her refrigerator before she throws it away. It is a day of utter waste. In protest, I break a rule and give her a hug when she asks what’s become of the world. I have come to know that when we bring a meal to someone, the food is just a vehicle for connection.