Diary To Cloud

the counter is unsurprisingly cold.

i jump and sit on top of it, ignoring the obvious silent protests from my mom’s eyes as i plant myself next to the chopped onions and carrots that are messily placed on a plate next to me. something is brewing on the stove. something with hints of turmeric and allspice, the smells of home. i don’t understand how she managed to replicate such a nostalgic smell in an american kitchen. despite complaining about having to use an induction stove and part ways with the old and crooked pots she got all the way from india, my mom makes do with what we have. 

she moves around the kitchen like a cat. i blink and she’s in the pantry, searching for dried herbs to add to the simmering pot. i blink again, she’s digging through the freezer for the last page of frozen shrimp to cook my favorite seafood curry. the same bag i was supposed to have taken out hours ago. no matter how carefully i watch her go from raw food to a hot dinner, i can never record her movements.

the entire time she cooks, she hums to herself and tells me to talk to her. i love hearing you talk.”i don’t understand why, my seventeen years of existence has consisted of nothing but chatter from me. my voice is an enigma to her. like a butterfly. trying to catch it before it flies out of her palm. i listen, so i talk. 

between complaining about teachers and telling her about my friend’s complicated love life, i feel myself grow older in front of he r eyes. like the little girl who used to write rhymes and share them at the dinner table was replaced by an imposter with boy problems and bad classes. i don’t stop to wonder if she ever cares about these topics, i just talk. 

at one point, she stops me and tells me to read the recipe off her phone. i comply, scrolling through a long list of ingredients to read off the measurements. i mess up a few times and she jokes that i make a terrible chef’s assistant. i correct her, i’ll make a terrible wife.