last summer, revisited

In the cast iron pan the grease jumped up and down while the steak burgers popped and sizzled. Months of a regimented cafeteria diet had dulled the enjoyment I usually detract from eating a meal, which is unfortunate because every meal has the potential to be stimulating in both taste and social regards. At a residence dining hall eating is mutated into a daily function of routine, fulfilling no other purpose than filling the stomach. Being back has let me soak in the comfort one receives from homes small amenities, and on this evening the ability to cook my own food was such an amenity.

My mom was adjacent to me in the kitchen, cutting vegetables on the cutting-board in preparation for a Greek salad. We had spent the afternoon completing the requisite banalities one must tend to after being away for a while. ICBC, in predictable form, found a new way to empty both my wallet and hope for humanity.

The smoke being expelled from the cast iron pan spiraled up into the stoves fan, bearing a resemblance to the human made, education-based tornado Steve and I examined at Science World. Conversation had lulled and mother and son were going about their specific culinary tasks in content silence. Suddenly a thought perks up, there’s something she has forgotten to give me. Oh, mail, nothing exciting. T4 slips to remind me of how much money I once had and bank statements to remind me of how little money I now have. My mom is considerate and respectful of privacy - she left each envelope untouched, the security licking a transparent strip of glue provides remained intact.

But terseness could be sensed in her words and I have the feeling I am about to be prompted with the unexpected.

“I received a bill for an ambulance”

The events of late last summer taint and dilute the assured relaxation cooking food brings. I’m not sure why my mother chose to open that particular letter. It could’ve been the suspect sender coupled with my name. That would be enough to incite a combination of both worry and curiosity in her. She asks me if it had to do with drugs and I say no, which is the truth, but it feels like a lie.

I give her the Coles notes version and tell her that I have no long-term nuances as a result of getting hit by a car. For me the anecdote has become tiresome and I don’t think of it too often. She mentions that she neglected to inform my father and after I thank her we return to making dinner. The subject is dropped, probably for good.