1…2…3…
All to myself. I used to love it when the house was this way. Empty, quiet, and free to do whatever I wanted. For a couple hours the entire house was my domain. But now I miss when there was the incessant sounds of some personality echoing from downstairs. I miss smell of her cooking. I miss her chopping away, sauteing, frying, and baking. I’ll never taste it again.
4…5…6…
I cooked with her rarely. There were only a few times that the urge would hit me, but I would try to learn. And then relearn. The last thing we cooked together was an Oyakodon, which literally means “parent and child” donburi. There was no chicken though, so we used a can of tuna instead. It was simple and tasty but a little salty. One of the last things she wanted to eat, as I could remember.
7…8…9…
I tried to cook it again. I used the same stove top. This time there was some left over chicken from last night. It wasn’t the same. Too watery, too salty. The eggs were overcooked. The chicken was soggy. It wasn’t the same and it never would be. I would never eat like when she used to cook. That only remains in some foggy depth of my memories when I didn’t care and is smudged by arrogance and ungratefulness.
I threw it in the trash.
10…11..12…
He came home with take out last week from a restaurant that I’ve been going to since I was a kid. I knew the chef and loved his cooking. There was condensation on the ceilings of the styrofoam boxes that dripped onto the food. It was hambagu, a Japanese style patty with sauce on it. I haven’t eaten this in a while. I can’t remember the last time I ate this, but I guess that’s the same with everything else.
It was good like his food always was. But it wasn’t the same and this was when I realized it never would be.
13…14…15…
After the ceremony earlier this month, people gave me words of encouragement and condolence. Some people said to me that she was glad that this happened when it did because I was an adult now. She was glad I was off to a nice college and a great future lay ahead of me.
I can’t even buy myself a beer.
“An adult.”
16..17…18…
Every summer since high school my fingers felt this way. They’re stiff and rigid. Slowly becoming petrified from idleness. There’s so much time for my mind to go over myself. I feel every fold on my body. My joints become rusted. I can feel my churning and slowing down because there’s no reason to be ready. My eyes drooping, not even the energy to keep them open. My brain waiting to go unconscious again. My muscles are eating themselves.
19…20…21…
I do these once I wake up so my brain can lie to itself. You’re doing something productive. Maybe. At least it feels like something. My joints pop and squeak. I breathe with a purpose for half a minute. I count until I can stop and give up.
22…23…24…
What do I do in the after? What do other people feel when this happens. Am I supposed to walk through the house and wonder what she would think of me if she saw me now. Do other people feel compelled to better themselves? I only feel compelled to feel guilty about myself. Nothing has changed, but nothing is the same.
25…26…27….
There’s a herd of sheep on the hill that faces my window. I hear them crying. I can hear them chewing. Sauntering across the hill and slowly eating the brown grass away. Walking from one spot to the next as if they will never be full. I wonder how it tastes to them. I wonder if they’re enjoying themselves. I hope they are.
28…29…30…
Every evening, because I rarely leave the house, I see a black sedan pull up to the curb near my house. The car is an unremarkable workhorse that’s burnt its share of fossils and spent countless days baking in the sun. A tall Asian guy maybe in his twenties, old enough to need a job but young enough to just be dicking around, drives it. He always glances up towards my window. He sees me. I see him. Then he walks into house across from mine. I wonder if he knows. I know nothing about him. Why would he know more about me?
41…42…43…
Almost done.
This is the hallway that was flooded by an exploded sink. She spent days trying to dry everything out. To try to get everything the way that it was before. Whenever I came home for about a month she would be sucking the water out of the carpet with an industrial sized vacuum cleaner.
I just see the feint yellow border of where the water was now.
44…45…46.
One more than yesterday.
What to do now. Fix myself something to eat. Wash some dishes.
I wonder if if there’s somewhere I can get something to drink tonight.
All to myself. I used to love it when the house was this way. Empty, quiet, and free to do whatever I wanted. For a couple hours the entire house was my domain. But now I miss when there was the incessant sounds of some personality echoing from downstairs. I miss smell of her cooking. I miss her chopping away, sauteing, frying, and baking. I’ll never taste it again.
4…5…6…
I cooked with her rarely. There were only a few times that the urge would hit me, but I would try to learn. And then relearn. The last thing we cooked together was an Oyakodon, which literally means “parent and child” donburi. There was no chicken though, so we used a can of tuna instead. It was simple and tasty but a little salty. One of the last things she wanted to eat, as I could remember.
7…8…9…
I tried to cook it again. I used the same stove top. This time there was some left over chicken from last night. It wasn’t the same. Too watery, too salty. The eggs were overcooked. The chicken was soggy. It wasn’t the same and it never would be. I would never eat like when she used to cook. That only remains in some foggy depth of my memories when I didn’t care and is smudged by arrogance and ungratefulness.
I threw it in the trash.
10…11..12…
He came home with take out last week from a restaurant that I’ve been going to since I was a kid. I knew the chef and loved his cooking. There was condensation on the ceilings of the styrofoam boxes that dripped onto the food. It was hambagu, a Japanese style patty with sauce on it. I haven’t eaten this in a while. I can’t remember the last time I ate this, but I guess that’s the same with everything else.
It was good like his food always was. But it wasn’t the same and this was when I realized it never would be.
13…14…15…
After the ceremony earlier this month, people gave me words of encouragement and condolence. Some people said to me that she was glad that this happened when it did because I was an adult now. She was glad I was off to a nice college and a great future lay ahead of me.
I can’t even buy myself a beer.
“An adult.”
16..17…18…
Every summer since high school my fingers felt this way. They’re stiff and rigid. Slowly becoming petrified from idleness. There’s so much time for my mind to go over myself. I feel every fold on my body. My joints become rusted. I can feel my churning and slowing down because there’s no reason to be ready. My eyes drooping, not even the energy to keep them open. My brain waiting to go unconscious again. My muscles are eating themselves.
19…20…21…
I do these once I wake up so my brain can lie to itself. You’re doing something productive. Maybe. At least it feels like something. My joints pop and squeak. I breathe with a purpose for half a minute. I count until I can stop and give up.
22…23…24…
What do I do in the after? What do other people feel when this happens. Am I supposed to walk through the house and wonder what she would think of me if she saw me now. Do other people feel compelled to better themselves? I only feel compelled to feel guilty about myself. Nothing has changed, but nothing is the same.
25…26…27….
There’s a herd of sheep on the hill that faces my window. I hear them crying. I can hear them chewing. Sauntering across the hill and slowly eating the brown grass away. Walking from one spot to the next as if they will never be full. I wonder how it tastes to them. I wonder if they’re enjoying themselves. I hope they are.
28…29…30…
Every evening, because I rarely leave the house, I see a black sedan pull up to the curb near my house. The car is an unremarkable workhorse that’s burnt its share of fossils and spent countless days baking in the sun. A tall Asian guy maybe in his twenties, old enough to need a job but young enough to just be dicking around, drives it. He always glances up towards my window. He sees me. I see him. Then he walks into house across from mine. I wonder if he knows. I know nothing about him. Why would he know more about me?
41…42…43…
Almost done.
This is the hallway that was flooded by an exploded sink. She spent days trying to dry everything out. To try to get everything the way that it was before. Whenever I came home for about a month she would be sucking the water out of the carpet with an industrial sized vacuum cleaner.
I just see the feint yellow border of where the water was now.
44…45…46.
One more than yesterday.
What to do now. Fix myself something to eat. Wash some dishes.
I wonder if if there’s somewhere I can get something to drink tonight.
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