A bowl of Soto

Tonight I watched my mother ask my thirty-four years old brother if he had eaten yet
I saw her ladled out some Soto to a bowl and handed it to him after he answered he had not

And within those five minutes of interaction my mother's eyes lighted with happiness, as she asked how his day was
He answered shortly while enjoying the cold Soto

She knew it was cold and offered to reheat it for him
It tastes better if it’s warm, she said
But he refused and ate it anyway, he seemed hungry after a day’s work

After a few spoonfuls, he squeezed some lime and headed upstairs to his room
But the two of us stayed for a while
I glanced at my mother, her facial expression unchanged
He used to like warm Soto, she said