the sweetness
of getting to decide
every night
what to eat, where,
and with whom
has merged
with a nostalgia
for coming home
to a pot of rice,
and plates of entrees
(always at least one soup),
and everyone reaching in
with their own fork or spoon.
i wonder whether
what it is like
to come home,
make a pot of rice,
a stirfry, a curry,
and call loved ones
to the table,
knowing that they will eat
that certainty
of evenings
is as foreign now
as meatloaf.
narinda heng 