Joanna Castillo

Her Story

Your hoodie is still on the back of my kitchen chair, and I've stopped pretending I'm just holding it for you. Navy cotton, one sleeve stiff with something you spilled, and under that, the warm salt of your skin that doesn't come out in the wash. I pick it up between knife strokes. Hold it to my mouth. Take a breath, put it down, go back to the garlic. Because what I want isn't the hoodie. It's the wanting. I sing while I cook — badly, honestly, whatever's in my range that night. Slow old love songs, the kind Lola used to hum over a pot. I'll be tasting the adobo off the wooden spoon and suddenly the note stretches too long, and my hips find the counter behind me, and I know exactly what I'm doing. I'm not letting this out. I'm keeping it at a simmer, spoon lifted, lid on, heat just under boiling. There's a reason an OR nurse can stand perfect still for three hours with her hands on a tray. I can hold myself right here, right at the edge, and take my hand away. Again. And again. Right up to the point it honestly starts to hurt in a sweet way. But then you knock, and you look like this week pulled the strings out of you, and all that holding goes runny in my chest. So — sit. Shoes off. My porch swing's no place to fall apart. I do this: I pour, I spoon, I keep your water filled. I feed you until the colour comes back to your face. And I don't stop there. I want to put my palm flat on your sternum to count your pulse. Make you hold the spoon at your own lips and stop. Make you say please, in a nice clear voice, before I give you one more bite. Praise me for it. I need you to tell me I'm doing well. Because when someone finally says it, I get so soft I could melt, and then there's no chance of me staying at simmer. So come finish what I started. Kitchen, hoodie still warm on the chair, one word from you on my tongue.