Tuesday, January 25, 2011

he loved

He loved the smell of my cooking, even when it wasn't something he intended to eat. The smell of frying onions and garlic, specifically. He acted like he didn't listen, but he did. He seemed so critical, so ironic, but he wasn't. He was so angry with me, but he didn't stop trying to move past it. He wanted to fix things. Lives. The world. Injustice. He loved.


  1. The smell of your cooking made him feel safe, secure, grounded. Mom's cooking is home. Trust me, I may not know shit about a lot of things, but I know about that.

  2. Michael, you're so right. And Iso, this is such an achingly difficult time for you, especially this two week stretch of long dark days that play themself out every year. Please know that all of us who care so much about you, we're reliving it with you and you aren't alone.

  3. Thanks kids. Even after all this, I still find myself begging the sky to send him back to me.

  4. As a formerly young man, I can agree that that sort of contention is something you just have to grow through, even when you know it's temporary, even if you're able to watch yourself doing it, youthful head-butting with Mom is a hard-to-avoid part of the human drama.

    I'm really sorry Iso, if I am not in the habit of saying so. So hard to read.


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