Salt

25/06/2021

I am sitting by myself, reading Ondaatje’s Divisadero. The waitress arrives and places my plate of pesto pasta in front of me. Instinctively, as I reach out for cutlery, I call out to her, asking for some salt.

A few days ago, my mother told me that I take too much salt with my food. I had laughed, then, and continued to sprinkle white crystals over my sautéed tofu. Mother never puts enough salt in her food, and she knows this too. But she is my mother, and there are certain things she must do, and say, to remind herself, and me, that she is looking out for me. That I am still her daughter. That she is still able to take care of me in such ways, however small.

The waitress returns with the salt; I scatter it slowly and carefully over the multi-hued green noodles…

This piece was first published on RIC Journal. Click here to read the full story.

Cover image sourced from here.