i. your mother’s not home yet, so you decide to make it yourself

ii. standing on your tippy-toes to reach the linguini on the top shelf, it teeters right over the edge, one second, two seconds,

iii. and then it’s there in your hands so you walk across the kitchen floor (there’s a hole in your sock you can feel the tiles through)

iv. and pour just over five quarts into the pot.

v. the stove will tick for a little bit; that’s just how it works. some ticking and blue flame, wavering

vi. so softly you only feel warm for half a moment and that’s when the waiting happens, the minute hand going around the clock counting for a time you can’t measure until you hear 

vii. hisses and sputters and a faint wisp of smoke when you lift the pot. pour the pasta in and 

vii. cook for seven minutes al dente. 

viii. when you lift the pot the steam will go everywhere, up into your eyes like you’re standing by that faulty washing machine in the basement no one uses, because it’s bound to burst any day now, just one more load and that whole thing might blow up the building, that’s what the others 

ix. say anyway. pour all of it into the colander— watch out for the water, remember that one time you and Lily made mac and cheese, and she burnt her hand? but it doesn’t matter, though, because 

x. it really your hand isn’t hurting too bad. A little red but Lily was probably just whining. Making things up like Lily does. 

xi. put the pasta back into the pot, all drained, and tap the side of the olive oil bottle until enough drips out. 

xii. make a bowl for yourself and one for your father, and one cup of water with ice. you bring it over to the couch and set it on the coffee table (there’s a placemat for it, but only one coaster here so you have to take the other glass of water laying there, lukewarm, and dump it out in the sink). 

xiii. kiss your father on the forehead— he has a couple of freckles up there, and gray-speckled hair that he likes to point at whenever people tease him about getting old. “these?” he’ll say. “what’re you talking about? these are just my blonde highlights.”

xiv. eat one bowl of pasta and then another. keep eating until your teeth feel sticky with paste and your stomach swells and your eyes drop; until you start throwing up in the sink, hands clutched around the counter, your back 

xv. aching. after that you wait a few hours, lying on your bed, counting cracks in the walls, listening to the sound of your own breath: in and out and in and out again. 

xvi. at dinnertime, fill the pot with water, and repeat these steps again. after all, no one has ever taught you to make anything else besides pasta. after all, 

xvii. your mother isn’t ever coming home.