dear mom,
Today is not a day for psychoanalysis. I'm both not sure there's anything to say and sure that I can't untangle what I do want to say. I just want to tell you about my day, my weekend. A harmless conversation, but sometimes I feel myself getting irritated when strangers ask about it. It's just that sometimes I don't really want to think about it - not always because it was sad or anything, but because I don't anticipate the conversation will be substantive. It's just not worth describing the mundane details of how I spend my time for the sake of social grace. If you were still here, would I feel the same way talking to you? Would you soak up every detail of my day, offering unsolicited advice here and colorful commentary there? Would you pepper in some mundane details of your day? And then would I listen attentively? Uttering well-timed mm's and uh huh's at pauses so you'd know I was still on the line.
I'd char a couple poblanos on the gas stove, turning them to blacken, while you begin to ask me about my weekend. It started at the farmer's market, where I picked up tomatoes and corn for tonight's dinner. I'd tell you about how it was a small, uncrowded market, as I cut the kernels off one cob and cubed up a leftover squash to toss in the cast iron. I'd mention the weather - how it was drizzly and gloomy, how it's always like that in the morning but it clears up and gets really hot and sunny by the afternoon - while dicing up an onion and mincing some garlic for another pan. I'd tell you about thrifting in a the next neighborhood, as I slowly sweat my onions before adding a dollop of red mole paste for the sauce. How I stopped to get coffee and read a few more chapters of Beautiful Country. You'd ask me what it's about, as I stuffed my poblanos with my corn and squash mix and some mozzarella, and I'd tell you that it's about the hardships of immigrating from China to America. I'd ask about your experience, wonder if it was similar. Or if it felt exciting because you were already a young adult coming here for school. I'd struggle to hear your answer over the sizzle of tomatoes as I dropped them into the sauce pan. I bet you'd make a comment about how lucky I am. I wonder if I would feel lucky while I whipped up the batter and then struggled to coat my stuffed poblano. I'd tell you that I feel lucky to have friends who come keep me company and watch meteor showers with me for an evening and friends who keep me virtual company and watch concert streams with me for another evening. I probably wouldn't tell you that I don't feel lucky to have to move because I'm almost certain you would remind me it's more important to have a career.
You'd probably ask how work is going - because it's important to have a career. I'd turn my stuffed and battered poblanos in a shallow pan of oil that worked just as well deep frying, as I describe my new company in a way that would make you proud of me. I'd ladle a generous amount of red mole sauce over a toasty poblano and snip some scallions over the top while you maybe offer career advice. I wouldn't know there could be a timeline in which I couldn't listen to your career advice, and so I'd tune you out, as I started eating.
It would be so simple if every weekend could feel as easy as this weekend, where resting wouldn't feel so isolating and scary.
miss you,
Amelia
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