Fragments

The more I read, the more I felt myself becoming open and alive. Doors long closed, opening faster than I could walk through them. I was running, not from but to. I still didn't know what, but I could not stop.

Where did those things go that I wanted to write down? The things I wanted to even say out loud? Where do ideas go to die? Are they still somewhere in there hiding from me? Sometimes you can find them, like remembering a name that was lost then found, or a memory of a taste. They only come out of hiding when you stop looking, and then they WANT to be found so much that they derail the thing you have moved on to and demand your attention.

It is tradition, she said, to eat the last portion of the meal directly from the pan, or the pot, whichever it was cooked in. I thought she was crazy until she dragged me into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator in front of me, and pointed at the pot that contained the last of the pasta meal cooked five days ago. But it was no use resisting. So I grabbed a fork, collected the pot of pasta containing chicken, peppers, onions, garlic, and I pushed from my mind the thought of age, pathogens and bacteria, and I thrust the fork into the pot. I collected the first of many bites that would satisfy her requirement of me.