The smell of instant noodles reminds me of the train ride to
BeiJing, how the cart rolled by our beds, and we smelled the mist of chicken
bullion and salivated.
It reminds me of the barren countryside, tinted orange sun
rising above reaching tree branches, dirt homes flinging by the window.
It reminds me of the stops made at stations no bigger than a
stretch of cobblestone between two more tracks; people bundled in large, green
coats to their knees.
It reminds me of the woman and her dying husband who met and
played cards with us the entire way, surprised the foreigners could speak their
language and play their games; of the shitting hole we would squat over as we
went, watching the track’s rhythm beneath our asses, wind blowing up into our
faces and smelling of piss, shit and godknowswhat.
How things would crawl towards our feet while we peed,
antennas smelling the air and human food-waste; and how we would pour, wait,
stir and slurp yellow noodles, uncomfortable with our passports shoved into our
underwear, money beneath each bra.
Click by click, we raced towards the north, playing cards on
a table made from my backpack.
Instant noodles remind me of how we would smell of the salt
oil that came from the broth, lick our lips, want more.
How I wept to leave my country.
How the blankets smelled of dirty hair and car exhaust.
How the woman was stoic as she told us Bei Jing was her
husband’s last chance to find a cure for his cancered kidneys.
How I hated my white skin and wanted to be noodle-yellow.
How anger boiled between the three of us when we spoke of
packing our lives into one black box.
How acid sick climbed into the back of my eyes when the
child threw up on the floor.
How we took turns clamoring into the dining car to eat rice
porridge and fried eggs.
How we felt aborted from our people, ripped away to
shitfuckingnowhere.
It is never just a cup of noodles.
No comments:
Post a Comment