The Inside Diaries

Melancholy

She awakens, instinctively rubbing her upper neck, expecting a familiar clenched agony. None found, much to her relief, but, arms outstretched, she basks in the bright cold of morning, awash in—she pauses—

Melancholy.

Never one to dwell on odd sentiments and what may pass for a fleeting emotion, she dons her bathrobe, proceeding to the kitchen, realizing with a short smile she'd bought a package of spicy soup broth from the Asian grocery the afternoon before. Hot soup to warm the frigid soul, she muses, mostly to herself. It's always the little things, innit?

Retrieving field greens chilled by the iridescent glow of the fridge, she opens a drawer to decide upon a cutting board. Should it be a magenta plastic? What if she decides to photograph her culinary prowess? Should it be, then, the peasant-style birch wood board, its surface laying patiently beneath the ostentations pink? Instead, she reaches a silent compromise—a differently-hued plasticine surfaced shield, its color reminiscent of key lime pie and tropical sunshine.

Deftly rinsing the greens beneath a burst of cool water, she shuts the faucet, tapping the bundle against the sink's stainless-steel surface, to prevent leakage onto the kitchen's carefully-designed flooring, before placing it atop the cutting surface. Without so much as a moment's hesitation, she swiftly guillotines the dried base and the very tip of the vegetation, bound for the refuse.

Examining the cluster, she notices its wide spinach-like leaves, its al dente stems still connected to a sturdy base, akin to a horticultural family tree in live-action motion. The matriarch. The patriarch. The grandparents. The cousins. The parents. Her memory flickers to an earlier time spent with her grandmother, foraging for perilla leaves in the nearby neighborhood grove of expansive forest; she could still taste their licorice-mint crunch upon her tongue if she imagined enough, flavorful on its own but often accompanied by crimson chili sauce, spicy as ever.

Once upon a time, I had a grandmother.

Once upon a time, I had a family.

Blinking hard, she returns her attention to the vegetation before her, which she chops into neat, evenly-spliced pieces as to cook evenly. Just as she had watched her grandmother do, time and time again, except with onion root and chives, their long blades reminiscent of springtime grass. Perhaps this was indicative of muscle memory of yore. Whatever it was, she continues her efforts in the present, brandishing a small nonstick metal pot beneath the sink, as water levels rose within until two inches below the topmost circumference.

She folds (rather than tosses) the greens into the awaiting pot, her fingers gently bending fragile fronds, saturating each beneath the pot's surface. Sniffing the amalgamation, she frowns, noticing its surprisingly earthy aroma; she doubles back to the sink, rinsing the greens once, twice, then thrice, ensuring she has paid due diligence to the spicy soup she envisions for her morning meal.

A flame bursts forth, steady and sure, after she turns the burner on. Five, ten, then fifteen minutes pass as she adds various accoutrements to the brew—wild white wood ear mushroom, a smattering of egg noodles, last night's precooked flavorful ground turkey. Lowering the temperature to a simmer, she finally adding the spiced broth mix, stirring throughout. A quarter teaspoon—half a teaspoon at very most. From past recollection, the powder is potent enough to make one's lips tingle with the heated ferocity of several jalapeno peppers.

All she wants is—to feel. A semblance of the outward—wayward—world.

Anything.

She microwaves herself a mug of hot water while waiting for her soup, removes the mug from the cuboid within, adding a peppermint tea packet from the lazy Susan shelf below, tearing its paper in one fell motion for the miniature dried herb bag inside. Strong tea, for a trying day.

Sometime later, sipping her potent broth from a ceramic bowl, tea piping hot within her thermos, she sighs, enjoying the prickling spiciness, the dance of heat upon her delicate tongue, as her senses are reawakened into the dawn of a new day. She begins to type a new story.

Melancholy, no more.