This evening I started craving soup for dinner. My brain started buzzing. It's raining and snowing, I've got lots of vegetables in the fridge to use, I could make a lot of it and freeze the rest, I've got some soup base seasoning to boost the flavor, should I use a recipe from a book or should I throw stuff together, on and on ran my thoughts. Among my rows of cookbooks is one called Thai. It was a Christmas gift to my brother from me many years ago. I was flipping through it, looking for soup recipes, when I came upon this piece of paper with his handwriting. Ingredients needed for egg rolls. I was overcome with emotion. My hunger turned to nausea. Here he was. My beloved brother that was once alive on this earth, scribbling a list of things to buy at the food store. It was a shock to my system. It was one of those moments I found myself caught between my daily reality and my life reality, if that makes sense. I'm living, I'm going on about my days, I'm looking through cookbooks, and then the heavy reality presents itself. It's a quiet, empty feeling.
One of the most tragic, difficult aspects of losing a loved one is just not being able to talk to them. I just want to talk to him. I want to have a conversation with him, it doesn't matter what about. I do talk to him in my mind, but, obviously, it's not the same. I want to ask him if he made those egg rolls. And if he made them for himself or a friend or if he took them to a party. How'd they turn out? Then we'd talk about his delicious marinated chicken kabobs he used to make for our 4th of July parties. But I can't call him. I'm left with a note, written one day, years ago, when he was looking through a cookbook.