Ramen

Written by Mary Claire Jackson

Graphic by Mary Claire Jackson

Today I cooked ramen for the first time since I left you. Second nature and each second so wrong. Maybe it was cooking in a fully lit kitchen. Free to be loud, to take up space. The brick cracked so sweetly. Then he asked why I had broken it, habits of a forgotten life. “I used to do that for CJ.” Bub had always wanted me to break it, fearing, as siblings do, he would be shorted the food he was rightfully owed. Too young to catch that all the noodles went in the same pot, that it made no difference. Chubby cheeks and untamed hair, a vision so palpable and yet—trying to recall only disturbs settled silt. Worlds that once were, ripple into nothing. All in my head. But that’s how it is. Trying to remember is just chasing a mirage, but when you don’t try, it takes you. I dumped in the packet of golden powder, the smell drafted up in little clouds of dust.

Caught.

I was back in a dark house. The piling disgusting dishes, the paper clutter, the odds and ends of every unfinished project, illuminated by the singular light over the stove, had swallowed up the kitchen. So vivid. Don’t touch, don’t make a sound, don’t breathe. The musk of the dog and that house’s strange familiar tinge overpowered the fragrance of my cheap ramen powder. Nothing ever covered the smell of you though. It wasn’t terrible as long as you avoided the living room. Too poignant over where you lay sprawled across a sunken couch, no pillow, no blanket. An impatient CJ fiddled with his spoon, threatening to disturb the delicate silence. “Hey hey hey, it’s almost done. Please.” Once dinner was finally ready, we poured our steamy bowls and made our way out front. Easier to breathe outside. Red wine’s fruity spirits are just too nauseating. We settled on the drive, facing the line of gleaming houses across the way. Slurping and clinking spoons filled the stale cool air. Alien silhouettes framed in their little yellow boxes mingle and titter about as they settle in for their own dinners. Warmth soon fills up my stomach, enough to last the night. Isn’t that the only value of twenty cent ramen—warmth? I wondered what the silhouettes were talking about. Bub droned on about having ramen again tonight, just trying to get under my skin. I hushed his whining but really, it wasn’t his fault. I just—what would I have said? I never knew what food I was allowed to touch and even if I mustered the willpower, what if I burned something and what if it tasted unbearable and what if it made CJ sick and what if you woke up and—“Hey, I know, I know. I’ll make you something nice for breakfast. How about muffins?”

Come back. Back to the apartment kitchen, drag myself to the now. Make myself a bowl of ramen. The creamy chicken flavor is the same, unmistakable and unremarkable. It still tastes empty. Tastes like loneliness and survival. Tastes like scrambling to get upstairs before you lock in on a target. Tastes like sleeping in CJ’s bed so when you awoke at three a.m. you wouldn’t wake me. Tastes like asking Dad when he’ll be back, like hearing the roar of strangers in the background. Tastes like anxiety attacks years later when someone spills wine across the table into my lap. Tastes like climbing out on the roof, numb, wondering if you would still wake up this time.

Stop. I said come back. Life doesn’t taste like that anymore.

I looked around the now, rediscovered a reality with a fully lit house, where you were not. Settling into the sea of fluffy blanket that had engulfed the couch I uncovered a buried treasure, the cat. Clio chirped and chattered her hellos, all wide eyed at being awoken from her slumber, and stretchhhhed, all the way into a crescent. And when I spotted the little leaf beginning to sprout off my Monstera, my thrilled exclamations spilled out without a second thought. Knowing how worried I was about killing that thing, my roommates sounded their congratulations. Finally ready to eat, Marcus hurried over with his steaming bowl and foggy glasses. Always so excited for these simple pleasures.

Hot food, good company, a moment of rest and soon that contented grin painted across his face would turn the everyday colorful. And of course as he sat down, Clio decided to make our space hers, resettled between our laps to resume her slumber. Sprawled with her tummy on display, she positioned herself strategically in hopes of getting some love. The fur on her pudge sits like a toddler’s unruly bedhead and as she drifts, her soft snore drifts up and the whole world goes quiet. The gentle lights of a lit tree echoed the atmosphere of the room. Its twinkles reflected off his glasses in purples and blues as he laughed. It wasn’t as hard to come back here. A vibrant world, a space for ease, for tenderness, for loud living, for nourishment, for joy even in the mundane. This place is always so perfectly warm.

Golden Hills

By Katelyn Buck

I used to dream of worlds where I was skinny. Impossible worlds where I didn’t have these golden hills and wings and round cheeks. Where I could fit into chairs and not get stares when I walk down the street. The golden hills of my skin created beautiful sunsets before you looked at them and said flatlands were better.

I jump from these hills and I fly.

And I fly close to you and show off and tell you that you’re wrong.

And you grab my wings and pluck my feathers and cut my hills and ruin something beautiful. You ruined something beautiful.