Spring Break

I lost

a whole story in the ether.

Sitting seething.

But I’d promised I’d make sesame noodles even though we had no ingredients

besides chicken broth and

a few strawberries

and leftover beet salad.

I didn’t want to make noodles.

Or eat.

Ever.

But I drove back

mad

to Publix for the second time today

with the vinyl bag my mother had hanging

by the door so that I didn’t give in to plastic bags I’d never take at home,

and walked past a man in the parking lot pushing his cart with his arm in a sling

and another man headed to his car with a cast on his leg.

Like they were leaving the ER

instead of the grocery store.

All daylight disappeared

and I was in the cold blast of pretend air.

I found the International foods in aisle 7.

International.

Taco shells and

Ragu and

La Choi.

No rice wine vinegar.

A jar of ginger for $5.99.

A jar of not the right kind of paste

for $7.99 that

my mother wouldn’t ever finish

since she doesn’t really cook.

She opens and heats.

I stood staring at the limited offerings

for so long that a couple who had come by for soy sauce and then

gone down the aisle and then

up another until they were back for

sesame seeds

saw me

standing there still in the same spot

not wanting to buy

and cook

dry Chinese noodles.

or continue to wander and search for the peanuts

and the scallions

and the garlic

and the cucumber

all for a total of five times the cost

of buying perfectly fine sesame noodles

at Kam Wah around the corner from my mother’s.

I put the noodles I held

back

and considered

frozen tortellini

or a roasted chicken

or seeing if the Greek restaurant with the good pita but

with the owner who yells

did takeout.

I walked to the front of the store,

left my empty basket by the door,

went out to the humid warmth and light,

got back into the car

and sat

staring at the round gray clouds that had just poured.

I can’t just go home.

I promised her noodles. And she doesn’t understand my moods,

the ones where I just throw up my hands and quit

eating and communicating and

being rational. It’s not just

hormones.

It’s me when I’ve lost something.

And can’t get back on track

and don’t want to because she could offer to help, too.

I don’t have to feed people.

My mother would be fine with nothing.

My mother will make it fine.

I don’t have to cook for her. I don’t have to cook. I don’t have to. I don’t want to.

My daughter asked why when I came home with nothing.
My mother suggested

the frozen lasagna

the frozen steak,

understudies in her freezer.

I stood and stared out the window at the pool

wishing I didn’t have to pull in my stomach when I walked,

that my thighs didn’t sag and dimple,

wishing someone would say what we’d have for dinner

and I’d sit at the table and eat it,

and my story about my daughter and her patience

I’d written and lost

and my memories of our childhoods

would somehow reappear.