How does it feel having the wind brush your chilly wounds? No, it’s not bleeding – but it is as deep as ever.
It’s quarter ‘til midnight – Dining the last meal of the day alone, with untouched rice and cold Pork Adobo in the microwavable. No phones, no tablets, and no TV’s, just me, the unfilled seats for 3, and the phlegmatic atmosphere I could not describe.
It doesn’t feel new, nor does it faze me at all. Nevertheless, it is my life I live day to day. No whining about such situations, at least I had food on my table; Not only my table, but also once called ours.
How does it feel to have your name echo through the walls of such a happy home? all just so you could set the plates and the utensils that once witnessed a complete table with stories you needed to catch up on. No one died, but the thought had always been sitting in the back of my mind.
As the rain pours like the clouds are tearing up, grieving like it also had lost its spark, I quietly scooped half-filled spoon with rice and a piece of pork. The pork is cold, and it has absorbed the sauce while it was in the fridge; The rice wasn’t cold, though, it sat out so much that a bite felt like chewing clusters of sand.
I could have always just made my own, just prepared, warm meal. But, it was never how warm or cold it was – nor was it about how it tasted. Whether I was eating anything at the dining table, it wasn’t important; I was still starved of the feeling of creating memories with those whom I had always cherished from the start. The crisp blow of air caressed my face of detachment – Is this the hazy breeze of my reality? Could I not be bitter about it at all?
𝗪𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 𝗯𝘆 Denise Lei Suba
