I see tiny shoots peeking out from inside the can's tin walls. Premium crushed tomatoes in rich puree, the lengthened font says, decorating the front of the can with what looks like the world's blandest bowl of salsa. I bought this can because it reminded me of you, and how excited you were to spot your family's sacred tomato sauce brand at Safeway all those years ago. Then I used a screw to hammer six small holes in the bottom, the way my mom taught me, to cultivate a protected space for new life.
It's funny how everything feels interconnected. The same pothos shoot we planted together is now dying, sitting away from the sun on my bathroom counter in an intentional grave. But these memories of you, no matter how painful, still follow me. In my thoughts, my writing, and now even the can of tomatoes that I use to grow my basil in. Do these ruminations ever fade, or are they an ever-lasting presence that grows with our reflection? Sometimes I wonder how much of you is made up of the face I see looking back at me in the mirror. And how much of me is cultivated in the way you make your coffee in the morning, your morning stretches, your poetry? Does my tired face enter your mind like an unwelcome guest when you study, bringing you back to our endless hours of connected library time?
Su says that people attach themselves to us, from our hips, our waists, and our chests. We carry these chords with us wherever we go, heavy with the desires and expectations of others who may no longer even think of us. When we cut these chords, she says, we set ourselves free, gaining back our independence and our sense of lightness in the world. If I cut the chord that connects to you, meeting in the place where my curls touch my chest, will I lose just you or also a part of myself?
