“Yeah, there’s more rice. A crescent of rice. You can help yourself. Or I can get it for you.”
He walked to the kitchen to get some rice. “It’s funny–no one talks about that. How if you make some rice, and there’s a layer at the bottom of the pot. So you take some out, and more out. And if there’s some left, it’s on the edge in a crescent.”
He came back with more rice. “Rice makes those tunnels in it too, from the steam,” I said. “No one talks about that either. But that’s life. Right?”
“That is life,” he said. What life is.
“Maybe they’re talking about it somewhere else,” I said. “Maybe they’re speaking a language I don’t know.”
He put red pepper flakes on his rice. I’ve been having back pain. I told him I hate when the physical pain and emotional pain get all mixed together. Then I become a pain creature.
talking to trees
“That was really bad the other day, when we were walking around outside, so slow, and I could barely walk. I was trying to help myself, but I was like–is this really helping?” I watched Ming eat rice from the big lovely bowl.
“Maybe it did help,” I said. “I had to try something. At least we looked at those trees. Did you like that?”
“Yeah, I did,” he said.
“I was criticizing the trees in my head, then trying to make friends with them again. Does everybody do that, in their head?” They were mulberry trees, I must admit, some of my least-favorite trees.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
“Is that a crazy thing?”
“Most people don’t talk to trees in their head,” he said. “Or don’t admit it.”
“Is that shameful?” I asked. “It’s not hurting anyone, to talk to trees. Who else would you talk to?”