Good Noodle
When I was little my favorite dish was buttered spaghetti noodles
Every time my mom would make it for me
without fail she would always burn a few of the edges
of course, me being the good child I was
I’d complain
Every time, she’d tell me to suck it up
that if I had any patience I could simply cut that tiny burnt piece off
and realize that there is plenty of good noodle left
it is in these small moments
that my mother teaches me to see the good
My mother has a way with words
rather I should say
my mother has a way with life
When she isn't burning spaghetti
She's probably dancing somewhere where there is no reason to dance
Or laughing far too loud for whatever the occasion is
I am always amazed how my mother creates joy
Even in places it was never intended to grow
And I am no gardener
but perhaps I could be a garden
the fruit of her labor
at the very least I try to be an understudy
I watch her as she watches herself in the mirror
she poses and smiles
my mother always thinks she looks good
because my mother always looks good
But me?
There are days when I see myself
as more burnt edge
than good noodle
So when I look into the mirror
and I force myself to remember the lines she taught me
on the days that I get it right
every insult ever hurled at me
falls away to charred ashes
my reflection makes me want to bust out the finest dance moves my mother's memory has to offer
I dance my way to a floor full of people
Crashing their bodies against each other
Trying to shimmy the sweat away
Like water escaping a colander
In this moment
We are not burnt edges
We are al dente perfection
We are the exhale to every held breath
the faith behind hope
We remember that life is worth living
because every day bookending it was just a burnt edge
that has been cut off
And on the days that I get the lines right
I almost convince myself to not be afraid
of all the burnt pieces inside of me
or all the burnt moments ahead of me
It is my last few months as an almost adult
before i become the real thing
and the world is rushing up to meet me at my doorstep
but I still don't know if I’m good enough to answer
So I decide to distract myself and make pasta at midnight
Because there's never a bad time for pasta
As I rinse the noodles
I realize I've burnt the edges of my spaghetti
It tastes like joy in the most unlikely of places
I laugh too loud for being alone in my kitchen
But all I hear is my mother telling me that everything is going to be just fine
