Taste: cracked pepper on grilled tofu with cilantro and sweet, bitter coconut juice
Touch: his cold forehead, the bed is shaking with his fever
Smell: grilling sesame oil
Sight: coconut juice is clear with a touch of cloudy miasma like a milky eye; the restaurant is filled with Vietnamese laborers with pock marked skin; the cashier has brightly colored ink sleeves, he speaks perfect English; the sandwich costs only $3.50
Sound: the squeegee, groan, groan, of the windshield wipers
Extra: strangeness, what is foreign, anything new or not often experienced, new, tastes, smells, sights, canisters of things to buy your mother never purchased, it may be in a shop down the street from where you work, where people you do not know go everyday; What is American— It is 3:30 a.m. on a rainy night in winter, the temperature hovers at 33 degrees, there is a skiff of snow against the windshield. My husband has awoken with chills. I drive to the neighborhood grocery store. The streets are empty. There are four cars in the parking lot, including a white Corona van with two men inside wearing stocking hats. Have no doubt: the grocery store is open. It is brightly lit and filled with everything in all colors. There is one man employed stocking the shelves. I am going to buy whatever it takes to make my husband feel better. The man sells it to me. He asks, "Is it day or night?" I am uncertain. "Is there sushi?" the next customer, a black man, asks. Of course there is. The employee points the way helpfully. I return home. This is America. My husband does not have to be sick. We may eat sushi at any time. When I go home, I give my husband pills. And he does, in the morning, feel better. He goes to work.
Touch: his cold forehead, the bed is shaking with his fever
Smell: grilling sesame oil
Sight: coconut juice is clear with a touch of cloudy miasma like a milky eye; the restaurant is filled with Vietnamese laborers with pock marked skin; the cashier has brightly colored ink sleeves, he speaks perfect English; the sandwich costs only $3.50
Sound: the squeegee, groan, groan, of the windshield wipers
Extra: strangeness, what is foreign, anything new or not often experienced, new, tastes, smells, sights, canisters of things to buy your mother never purchased, it may be in a shop down the street from where you work, where people you do not know go everyday; What is American— It is 3:30 a.m. on a rainy night in winter, the temperature hovers at 33 degrees, there is a skiff of snow against the windshield. My husband has awoken with chills. I drive to the neighborhood grocery store. The streets are empty. There are four cars in the parking lot, including a white Corona van with two men inside wearing stocking hats. Have no doubt: the grocery store is open. It is brightly lit and filled with everything in all colors. There is one man employed stocking the shelves. I am going to buy whatever it takes to make my husband feel better. The man sells it to me. He asks, "Is it day or night?" I am uncertain. "Is there sushi?" the next customer, a black man, asks. Of course there is. The employee points the way helpfully. I return home. This is America. My husband does not have to be sick. We may eat sushi at any time. When I go home, I give my husband pills. And he does, in the morning, feel better. He goes to work.
Comments
Post a Comment