Yellow Z

It is still weird to
sit down in a kitchen
that I live in, with

food that I made
for dinner on the
weekend

without him.

He should be there.
Asking if I like the
spinach. Saying that
the beans didn’t burn

this time. Asking if
everything was ok. His
way of fishing for

validation, for love,
for appreciation.

He found so much comfort
in grocery stores. Places
where he could buy

things that represented
what he knew about me.
Where he could come to
me and say

“I got you frosted flakes,
your favorite.” I would

always roll my eyes and
say thank you. What I
wouldn’t give for another

one of those moments. To
know what it would be
someday when they were
no longer.

“Every fucking weekend
my Dad would cook these
huge dinners. Every time

I sat down, he would say
to me, on que – “Smurf –
can you please go cut
the bread?” And I’d huff,
and sigh,

and go cut the bread. My
Sister, as soon as she
sat down he’d say

“Fred – go get the napkins.”

We were Fred and Smurf.
I’m not sure why.” I

brought up my Dad so
many times this weekend.

So much of early adult
life is about highlighting
what your parents

didn’t do for you
until one day they
vanish and

all thats left is the
good parts of them
that stayed with

what you are. The
understanding that
they did

everything
good
that they could
have

for me.

Lifetimes spent
around food
in familiar

kitchens
just sitting
together for

dinner.

I miss you
so much.

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