Lunch in the Morning by Eunice Choi (16, California)

whick whick whick whick whick. 

The chime of a fast knife piercing and decapitating some vegetable on the cutting board rings in my ears, while the sink runs galore. 

pooooshhhhh- 

---

“Water OFF!” I fervently yell in frustration from my room in the midst of peeking at the clock, stomping out, and scowling at Mom. The water turns off. The nearly inevitable recurrence is yet a problem for another day. 

“I’m sorry, dear, the water is off.” Mom blankly stares at me with seeming repentance, perhaps beguiling. Her eyebrows shrug high and her hands clasp together, as she stands on the kitchen corner with a dirty ragged apron tied on the front and wet hands. She is preparing a meal-- just for me. 

For me. 

Shaking my head, I sigh deep in and out, almost on my lungs’ own accord. Who knows how many times she will finally remember to turn off the faucet when not in use. Who cares, anyway? 

I blame Alzheimer’s-- but things are never quite the same. “Mom, you don’t need to make my lunch-- remember you don’t know how to cook, anymore?” 

Mom laughs and smiles after a brief second. “Why, who says I can’t cook? I’m cooking food for my own daughter.” 

“Mom! Please just stop.” Wondering what can possibly come next after her own culinary compendium has collapsed, I break down in a nervous rage. “Please stop, Mom, please, it tastes awful and you can’t even season the spinach-clam soup correctly anymore.” 

Occupied with the hot stove and the boiling soup pot, my mother stares back at me in innocent eyes and then studies the ground, processing my sharp words that stabbed her. “Oh.” “Okay.” 

Oh God, I know if words had blades, we would all be dead. 

“Ugh, and I’m late! All because of you!” I grimly lash out at her. I stomp to the bathroom, my mind reeling. To brush my teeth, to wash my face, to get dressed, and to eat breakfast were all part of the morning before I received notice of her new condition-- where her memory paled to paranoia and forgetfulness. Now, I’m ineluctably left responsible for the onerous task, that of filial duties, to remind her that the water bills will soar every morning.

When I make my way to the common area with my bag, Mom is packing, whilst humming, a bento box consisting of soup, rice, and kimchi. She ties her concoction tightly (proudly) with some red fabric, twice. 

“I’m not taking it.” I blurt out ceaselessly without reaching eye contact yet I slam the front door, no commiseration in sight. Does the angst yield me meager solace? 

As I tread out the apartment building in giant, far-reaching steps, I get ready to intersect the big crossroad. Hurriedly behind me, large strides of running, insufficient breaths of oxygen, and the sound of her voice washes over me. 

“Baby-” Mom catches her breath momentarily with her hands resting tiredly on her knees. She comes again with heavy eyelids. “Baby, you forgot this-” 

I scan her surreal presence in utter disbelief and immediate sentiment. She rushed down the four flights of apartment stairs barefoot and sprinted out toward the streets like a mad woman to hand me my lunch-- the lunch I had abandoned myself-- along with the warm and ebullient memories that I, not Mom, forgot. 

I have no right, but I reach for the lunch box. 

I have no right, but I burst into tears, like a tidal wave, and caress my mother in solace. 

I have no right, but I vulnerably smell the vast comfort, reassurance, and tenderness-- a scent that I desperately need right now. 

Oh God, I missed her so much.

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