It smells like chicken soup. Like orange-hued broth with thick noodles, small, soft pieces of potato and little shreds of chicken that you get at the corner Chino-Latino restaurant. Or at your godmother's apartment.
I want soup. I want to be sitting at a table in a Dominican restaurant, looking across at my mom as she eats her soup. This is the kind of soup we ate together. She made much healthier soup, which i liked, too. But there's something about greasy diner chicken soup that makes me feel like a kid. And makes me miss my mom taking care of me when i feel sick.
Every day deeper into fall and closer to winter just gets harder and harder. For about a month or so, i didn't miss her every day, all day. Now i'm back to missing her with every step that i take.
Back to work...
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