29. Chapter Twenty-nine #2
“But then I went to college and my roommate would always drag me onto the red line to hit a farmer’s market in Back Bay.
We’d go every week. I was pissed the first time because it sounded boring - I mean, we had food in the dining hall that wasn’t half-bad, why bother going all that way for the same stuff?
Especially when we had to wake up so damn early.
But then we got there and it wasn’t just some apples and oranges and carrots, you know?
I mean, there were apples and oranges and carrots, don’t get me wrong, but there was also this booth owned by Jewish immigrants from Europe and I thought I was going to cry the first time I tasted their babkas.
There was some really fucking good cheese from Wisconsin - don't even ask me how they got fresh Wisconsin cheese there, man, maybe just the cows were from Wisconsin?
I don't know, why did I never ask that? Ah man … anyway, there were these Polish jelly donuts that were to die for and all sorts of flowers and - oh and plants! I got my first ever houseplant from that place. I killed it, of course, but I got more and learned and ended up with a pretty good green thumb. They had flowers, too. I always thought-”
Something must happen with my face because he pauses and asks, “You okay?”
It takes a second to decide if I am.
Then I realize where my head had gone. The picture that had popped up, conjured by his words.
I nod, because I am okay. I'm thinking about my mamá’s garden. I'm thinking of the little plant she gave me one spring when she deemed me old enough to take on the responsibility of caring for one of my own. It’d been cilantro.
I’d killed it that first time, too.
I want to tell him.
I hold up a finger and scramble for my notebook, excited to share this with him.
But then the words just sort of… get tangled up in each other. Tangled and blurry and wrong.
Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong-
“Hey, hey, it’s alright. You - uh. Was it about the food?”
I shake my head.
I hadn’t liked the mention of food. It had made me feel hungry and nauseous and weird, like I was nostalgic and afraid all at once.
“The flowers?”
I suck in a breath, about to nod, but - but not really.
Not really the flowers.
The plant.
But how do I explain that? I don't know the sign for ‘plant’ and my brain doesn't want me to write. Doesn't want to give me the letters I need.
“Draw me it, Matt. It’s alright. Draw it for me. Take your time, yeah? I'm not going anywhere. Just try to draw it.”
And I can.
I can do that.
I can draw it.
Avoiding the spot where my pen had stabbed a little hole through the paper just now, I draw him a pot. The edges are kind of wobbly from my shaking hand. The stem of my little plant is wobbly too. But it's still clearly a plant.
Cilantro.
It had been cilantro.
When I’d finally managed to grow it right, mamá had used it to make sancocho, letting me help her. We’d listened to music together.. The window had been open, a breeze coming in.
She’d said, “This isn’t home, but sometimes, if I close my eyes, it could be.”
I’d asked for another story. I loved the Venezuela stories. They were always happy stories if we were in the kitchen or the garden. She saved the sad ones for nights by the fire, when we'd cuddle up together and sip her hot cocoa.
I don’t remember the story from that day, but I remember that it was my cilantro we cooked with. My cilantro that helped her feel more at home.
I write, CILANTRO. Then, beneath that, I write, MY FIRST PLANT WAS BAD TOO. BETTER LATER.
He takes the notebook when I hand it to him, both of us leaning over the coffee table to meet in the middle. I watch him trace the plant with his fingertip, one leaf, the other, then down the stem. He doesn’t seem to mind that it's purple instead of green. It’s the only pen I have tonight.
“Cilantro, huh? I don’t remember what mine was.
It wasn’t something you could eat, though.
I remember it was just supposed to be pretty or whatever.
It didn’t look pretty by the end of that first week, let me tell you.
” He laughs to himself before handing the notebook back and asking, “You killed your first one, too? But eventually got better?”
I nod and draw a bowl with a spoon. My heart aches, but it’s good.
This is so good.
I draw a hunk of corn with all its little kernels and a cut up yuca and sliced peppers.
I draw beef, which looks the same as any other meat in my purple pen, or maybe even like a vegetable, so I draw an arrow and write, BEEF because that was my favorite and that feels important for him to know. It’s probably stupid.
Really stupid.
I think about crossing it out, but I think that would be even more stupid.
I just try to forget I did it, moving on to draw a few little squares and draw an arrow from one to the already written CILANTRO.
Then, beneath the bowl, I write, SANCOCHO.
He takes it again. He does more of that tracing with his fingertip. I… I really like that. It’s like he’s listening to the story, even though the story has no words. It’s like he’s experiencing it.
I watch as he traces the shapes, as he maps out each little kernel on the corn
My favorite type of sanchoco is beef, but my favorite part of sanchoco was always, always the corn.
He’s giving it so much attention.
He's listening.