Soul Food

Because of the color reports from Grandfather Mountain, and in spite of the weather forecast, Adicus and I made our trip to Linville Saturday as scheduled. We left a little late- I slept in. It was worth the late start.

The wind was bitter and the cold damp air reminded me more of winter than fall. The color was incredible, though the pictures don’t do it justice because it was so dark. Adicus and I played fetch and took pictures all afternoon. Cruising down the parkway, with the dog in the back seat, familiar music on the radio. Except I’m in the driver’s seat now. It feels good, stopping when I want for however long I want, and heavy with responsibility.

When I stop at the Linn Cove Viaduct, I’m greeted with light snow. It occurs to me that going over Mount Mitchell on the Parkway may not be the safest way to get to Asheville. I debate as I drive. When I got to NC 80, the Park Service was just shutting the gates.  We came into Old Fort, got on I-40 and drove back to Haywood County, bringing a cold rain with us.

Despite the weather, it was a wonderful trip, and it gave me back my sense of wonder and brought me that sense of deep comfort, of fitting into my miniscule place in the world. As I sat in my cozy house that night, with the dog in my lap, the dull ache of accomplishment filled me from the toes up.

Sunday was bitter cold, and I spent most of the day dutifully holding the couch down. I settled in for a nap some time around three. At five, someone honked their car horn from my driveway, softly, tentatively, and the honking and subsequent barking and jumping around woke me out of a dead drooling sleep.

Still dressed in my pjs, I answered the door. I had bedhead and sleep lines. It was not a pretty sight, I’m sure.

My very sweet, very pretty, very well kept housewife neighbor was standing at my porch door. She had a big pile of silver shiny things. I blinked and rubbed my eyes. I smiled at her and resisted the urge to stretch. She was talking. Something about honking the horn to keep from startling me?

They were having a birthday party for her daughter. She thought I might like a plate. She knows how hard it is to cook for one. She’s been there. She’s been thinking of me. I should come up for coffee sometime. I am smiling and nodding and saying thank you, and saying something about always cooking too much food, when I bother. She is noticing my hair and my decision not to dress for the day and she’s still smiling and she’s handing me the plates, covered in foil, and I’m thanking her and agreeing with her about the coffee, and she’s talking about getting back to her company, and I’m smiling and waving as she gets back in her car.

Adicus and I come into the house and I put the plates on the kitchen counter. I stretch and fix my hair, and Adicus wants to go outside, so I let him out. I sit for a minute on the porch and try to process what has just occured, but I’m not sharp enough yet. My stomach growls, so I go into the kitchen and warm up the first plate in the microwave for a minute or two, and I sit down on the couch with a glass of juice and this plate. A few pieces of honey baked ham, corn and green beans, and a yeast roll. I’m eating, and as I start to eat, I start to cry. I’m still very disorientated at this moment, and I put the plate down for a minute and cry harder, then wipe my eyes and blow my nose and look bewildered at this ham and wonder why the fuck I’m crying because Noelle brought me a plate?

As I start to eat again, I realize. I realize that the last time I had honey baked ham was when the neighbor ladies came to my sister’s house after Mark’s service. I remember them piling a plate high for both of us, and insisting that my sister have seconds. I remember hating this for my sister, the death ham, so sweet, and we were starving, but it’s death food, every bit of it, brought by kind souls who think of you in concern and pity and know that you need to eat but are unable to oversee such a simple part of daily living because your life is a total shitstorm because you lost someone.

I realize that though no one has died, I have lost someone, and my neighbor lady, a very sweet and kind lady who has a master’s degree and the nice house on the hill and a husband and a little girl and two dogs and she stays at home, has thought of me, with concern and pity, and she brought me divorce ham. I’m touched and everything is good, and I finish it all, including the dessert plate, except I let Adicus have the pumpkin pie, because he asked for it, but I hate her for it too. I hate her, and I feel guilty for hating her, and I will go up the hill one day to have coffee, because I’ve always liked her well enough, and she asked me to, and she’s very sweet, but I hate her and I hate myself for hating her.

When I finish with dinner, I head straight into the office. Into the room where the ex stayed after we split but before he left. That moment is frozen in time in this room, with clothes piled on the floor next to a makeshift bed and the smell of dust and dead dreams. He had agreed to let me pack up his things. So I started. I cleaned and packed and sorted and cleaned and packed and sorted some more. There is more to do, there are more boxes to pack, and more cleaning and rearranging to be done, but it’s okay.

As I slip into bed Sunday night, I feel more like the girl who took the dog for an adventure on the Parkway and less like the girl who ate pity ham in her pj’s at six o clock on a Sunday afternoon.

Now I just have to find the time and the courage to go up the hill for coffee.