It was rare that I went to stay with you. So rare that you did not have anything in your apartment that said, “I am a parent.” No pictures of me on your wall. No clothes for me to change into. Not even a stuffed animal for me at night, though I was way past the point of needing one, but you couldn’t possibly know that.
On this particular stay, you bought me Lunchables. It was the one with crackers and meat and block cheese that made my skin itch to think about. Mom would have known I wouldn’t eat it. Mom would have gotten me the pizza one that, at the time, I thought was at least 10 Michelin stars worth.
I was resigned to eating it. But then I saw it: Ham. For once my mouth could not be controlled:
“I can’t eat this.” I stared up at you, the light reflecting off your bald head making me squint.
You looked annoyed. “Why not?”
“I can’t eat ham. We only eat Kosher.” I said this word proudly, like my mom taught us, because “we were the chosen ones”. I guess you did not know that.
I don’t remember what you said in response. Does it really matter? In the end I remember chewing and swallowing. I remember hating every single bite. I remember you driving me home, my real home, and hugging me. Mostly I remember you saying, “see you soon” and knowing it would be several months until you came back around again.