My home rests behind.
I can be on my own now,
I am old enough, aren't I?
Freshman, old enough.
I walk through the streets of an Unknown town.
I see the faces of
Unknown people.
I observe the
Unknown children
As they rush up and down the street,
So innocent.
How could they be so happy?
I suppose their family loved them.
Their father hadn't quit on them.
Their mother hadn't pushed them to
Running.
Their mother hadn't gotten onto them
For one stupid test in
Hundreds to come.
Hadn't kept pressing them.
Hadn't yelled at her for not doing one
Homework page.
Once hot anger
Still resides,
Though turning gray.
I push,
I shove,
I cram my doubts into my heart,
Locking them with a key only
I used.
A feeling emerges.
Rumbling, tumbling
In my gut.
I frown, laying a hand on my abdomen.
Anger?
Fear?
Regret?
I think, and then
Give a small
Derisive
Laugh.
Only hunger.
The shop nearby has Italian food.
Spaghetti.
The thought makes my mouth water.
Stomach growl,
Head turn.
Mom made that best.
I bite down hard on what anger I can muster,
Making sure I'm not thinking of going back.
Under lock and key,
My doubts writhe.
Stepping into the resturant
Slams me with sensory input.
The smell of baking dough.
The sweet scent of some sort of
Pastry.
Cinnamon roll?
Cross buns?
Terrimasu?
Dutch apple pie?
My mouth waters in response to the
Warm welcome of the sweets. My eyes skim over the menu.
They scan,
Search,
Yearn for the spaghetti.
I find it, then rifle through my pockets.
Five dollars for a small portion.
I find the money,
Then slide it over a shiny counter.
To the older woman across from me.
She gives a brief look,
One that deepens the wrinkles of her
Kind,
Wisened face,
But asks nothing.
I find a table
At which to wait,
Sitting down for what seems like the
First time in hours.
Relief fills my legs,
But scent fills my mind.
Mom made it best.
I know because she taught me.
Young me,
Taking the skin off of boiled
Tomatoes.
Dumping store bought noodles
Into a boiling, roiling
Mountain of water
Somehow contained in a single pot.
Mom is in the room next to this,
Talking.
Talking to someone,
Someone angry.
I turn,
Not being careful,
And drag the pot of water by the weight of unsnapped noodles
Over the stove edge
Onto my feet.
The water hurts as it seeps through my shoe.
Seeps into my skin,
And I scream.
I hop about,
Trying to remove the scalding shoes
But succeed in also burning my hands
As I do so.
Frantically,
I shake my hands,
Trying to fling off water
Already burning through me,
Tears sliding down my cheeks.
Someone's hand touches my face,
Someone kind.
Mom is there,
She shines in my memory
As she does in my life.
Sweetheart, she says,
How'd you manage this?
I can't reply for the lump in my throat.
She picks me up,
Careful of my burning feet,
Carrying me to safety from that mountain of water.
I give a start as a plate of spaghetti suddenly lies before me.
Thin, delicate noodles
Spread with red sauce,
With a piece of delicious looking
Garlic bread on
The side.
I stare.
I stare.
I stare.
I hear footsteps receding into
The distance of the kitchen.
Mom made it best.
I stare.
Bandages line my feet once more
As I pick up my fork.
Blisters are covered in antibiotics
As I lift a hand to my face
To find it wet.
A voice,
So close, it seems,
Says,
"You'll be alright,
Won't you bug?"
A kiss on the forehead,
Then olive green eyes shining into me.
Mom made it best.
I choke on rising emotion.
I drop my fork.
I see my mother.
I see her,
Crying.
I see her
Lying in wait.
Trying to see what she did wrong.
She's done nothing wrong,
And I am an idiot.
How could I do this?
I feel this lump in my throat.
How could I do this. She loves me,
And I did this.
What have I done.
I lean forward,
Over my plate of
Spaghetti.
Mom made it best.
She was trying to help me,
And I did this.
I love her
And I did this.
I stare at my spaghetti,
Bur all appetite is gone.
After all,
Mom made it best.
The sweets smell like her hair.
The garlic,
Unfortunately,
Smells of her morning breath.
I laugh aloud at the association.
I love her so much.
Tears sting my eyes
That fight to stay dry.
But the water still spills.
I love her so much.
I love her so much.
I love her so much.
I feel a hand,
A light touch.
I don't need to turn.
I know already.
The kind voice of the older woman,
With her dark skin,
Her laugh lines,
Her wise old eyes.
"I think it about time you got back home"
I stare at my plate,
Noodles slathered in sauce.
Bread still hot.
Fork lying across the meal
Where I had dropped it.
Slowly,
Slowly,
Slowly,
I pull my phone from my backpack.
I look at it in fear,
Regret,
Guilt.
The woman lays a Cinnamon Roll,
Perched on a napkin,
In front of me.
"No charge sweety"
How could she know?
Well,
I was carrying a backpack,
A tired body,
And a box of fire over my heart.
I suppose that told her.
Her wise eyes saw, and I was clear.
Slowly,
Slowly,
Slowly,
I dial my Mom's phone number.
What if she hates me for leaving her?
I type in the last few digits.
What if she doesn't want me back?
My finger pauses above the call button.
What if she doesn't love me anymore?
Her eyes shone out from the spaghetti,
Calling.
Promising.
"I love you forever, bug. I will always
Love you."
I love you too.
My finger presses the button.
One ring.
Two rings.
Three rings.
"Hello?"
I gasp, tears streaking.
I love you too.
I need you.
I love you so much.
"I'm so sorry, Mom!"
I choke on my words.
I love you so much.
I'm so sorry.
I love you.....
"Bug?"
The woman's hand leaves my shoulder.
"I'm so sorry, mom."
I'm so sorry.
"Oh baby, where are you?"
I stutter out where I am,
Barely able to keep myself together.
I love you so much.
"I love you, Mom. I'm so sorry...."
I need you so much,
I love you Mom.
I'm so sorry.
I love you,
I love you,
I love you.
