After I wave goodbye to you, son, I watch your tail lights disappear, then, roll down the garage door, brew coffee, wash dishes, scrub shaving foam from your sink, place your dirty clothes in the hamper, my ears, attuned to the ding of the cellphone for your messages—to say you reached school, to say you left school for the state college to attend the calculus class, to say you left college and reached the gym, to say you arrived at Starbucks for your barista job, to say you are headed to KFC with friends to grab a bite, so don’t wait up Mom—and after that I eat with your loaded plate beside mine, resend the message from yesterday and the day before to say pudding is sitting on the island in a round Pyrex box with an orange lid, then go to bed, ears attuned to the sound of the garage door.
Saturday, 26 June 2021
'Routine' by Sara Siddiqui Chansarkar
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