First of which is my uncle's 'Something' soup that he made for our lunch while the both of us sit sick and coughing today. It was practically 'something' as he made it from what ever he could rummage out of the kitchen. Amzaingly when he brought my bowl to my room everything seemed to warm up. Now there is something you should realize; the room that I occupy is a small patio space that use to be the main living room of the house when my grandmother was still alive.
As I sat at my desk slurping up the bits of seafood, shitaki mushrooms, and rice I could vaugely make out the phantom shadows of my grandmother's old couch, the TV in its original spot, and all the old bits of furniture that use to be in this space. But what struck me was the feeling of warmth that came with all those memories. If I were to be honest the space now is rather 'cold' I took the carpet out and I'm slowing removing all the old tiling, which leaves the cement floor. Its all very industrial and cold. I hope one day I can bring the warm back.
It never fails to amaze me on how far yet so close my grandmother is to me (my grandfather as well). I tell myself that I will visit her and him, but never have I built up the courage since the day that they passed and I watched them be buried.
All that from 'something' soup.
And while I am on the topic of memories, my auntie reminded me of how much I made myself forget most of my Junior year of high school and why I don't celebrate my birthday. It was a moment that lasted no more than a half hour and I was just 17. I asked to have sometime by myself, standing by my father's bedside as I listened to the sterile beeps and hiss of hospital equipment marked my fathers faint spark of life. I can't remember if I said anything, but on that day I unopened my one gift, a community-family offering, a green longsleeve T&C shirt with yellow plumeria across the front.
That was my last birthday.
In other news:
I was lucky for that second chance.
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