arching up under love's shadow
my mother is making muri, filling the house with the scent of parboiled rice deep-frying like little white bubbles in vegetable oil, solidifying into crisp warmth that will sustain my father when he's got nothing else.
i tell her we should make moas, handing her a jar of chocolate spread, and she shakes her head and smiles. says we have real molasses, and turns back to the stove.
thick oil-smoke is everywhere, coating the back of my throat with the bitter aftertaste of something i have yet to eat.
i retreat to the safety of my bed, the friendly nest of books and blankets and a warm lamp i keep from looking at, but move closer to in spite of myself.
there is contentment in turning the pages of a world i no longer need to be a part of, but brings comfort nonetheless. i remember how i used to feel alone, sitting amongst friends.
i remember that there was once a time i, too, would bring a back-up razor.
i realize i don't know what that feels like anymore.
and i am glad.
i tell her we should make moas, handing her a jar of chocolate spread, and she shakes her head and smiles. says we have real molasses, and turns back to the stove.
thick oil-smoke is everywhere, coating the back of my throat with the bitter aftertaste of something i have yet to eat.
i retreat to the safety of my bed, the friendly nest of books and blankets and a warm lamp i keep from looking at, but move closer to in spite of myself.
there is contentment in turning the pages of a world i no longer need to be a part of, but brings comfort nonetheless. i remember how i used to feel alone, sitting amongst friends.
i remember that there was once a time i, too, would bring a back-up razor.
i realize i don't know what that feels like anymore.
and i am glad.