The One Ingredient
The still kitchen feels cold and empty,
No sting of the bitter and sweet sesame.
Unuttered, untold recipes linger only
In the corners of my mind.
“Add garlic until it smells like home,” she would advise,
A secret recipe lost to the ages.
She is no longer near, within the salt and brine
And the smoky wisps, her presence I chase.
The kelp strips drop—green, dried ribbons
That bloom into a flower inside the bubbling pot.
Boiling, salty water creates a briny mist, filling the kitchen
With this soup of a mother’s labor pains and birthday feasts,
Concocted in honor of her who bore me.
But it falls short; the broth is bare.
The food lacks the most important ingredient on earth.
The noisy aisles of H Mart hum,
Fluorescent signs glow with foreign script.
My hand brushes against the cool skin of the chamoe,
And so many lost souls are gathered here
Between the words.
A wizened grandmother, hair intricately permed,
Devours her noodles in the food court with a wild and beautiful hunger.
The longing slams into me, an assault.
I crave my mom, lecturing me with her familiar reprimands.
More soy sauce and salt are added to the dark broth,
But the taste is still bland, with little meaning.
The frozen wall within my heart collapses as I gaze at it.
The shame burns me—so many years of silent ignorance,
A tearful price for all the unuttered words.
The salty liquid splashes into my spoon,
And for one brief moment, the wide, dark gap narrows slightly.
The flavor starts to change as the moon begins its slow ascension;
It finally tastes like her kiss.
She was never truly missing, never lost to be found
Only in the bright lights of an ordinary, busy H Mart.
What is truly most valuable and unable to be purchased or sold—
A daughter’s grieving heart to carry on her mother’s divine tradition.
The salty flavor of love,
The salty savory tears.
How we speak through the void,
Against death and against the fear.
With every spoonful,
She is still here.