Poetry
The Lucky Noodle Evelyn Williams My grandma sat at the dining table twisting her hands and grinding her shoulders, kneading her homemade chicken and noodles. I watched in awe: like a pancake, then her hands rolled the dough like a swiss roll. She took a knife and cut noodles, until she piled the “worms” high on the table. Grandma pulled us into a circle, grasping our hands, and spoke to Jesus. I took heaping amounts of mashed potatoes and corn and smothered the plate with noodles. I swallowed each bite with a spectacular smile, until one petrifying moment I discovered something powdery and not quite gooey hidden like a stowaway. A clump of noodles had stuck together and formed a mega-noodle, a mangled octopus of uncooked dough. I started gagging, but my sister said to me, “You gotta eat it, it’s the lucky noodle, it’s only lucky if you eat it.” I cautiously scooped the noodle back onto my spoon. ***** It’s been a couple of years since I had this opportunity. I admit that eating your lucky noodle made me feel like the most special person in your eyes. Even though I know you winced every time, I searched and successfully found one in the pot. I don’t remember what I said to you the last time I saw you. I don’t know if it was goodbye, I love you, or look what I found. But if I had just a moment where I felt you close by, I’d say, Thank you.
KIOSK2021
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