Memories

The smell of something.

It’s oniony and a bit…cooked. Is it something cooking next door? It doesn’t necessarily smell good. 

My nose is sniffing everywhere, looking a bit odd, probably like a dog or a rabbit.

I look over and Ellen is feeding the students large, oblong dumplings with her fork. The dumplings have rippled edges and translucent skin through which I can just see some green onions and who knows what else. No wonder the classroom smelled like food.

Watching this interaction, I am drawn back to my third grade class. 

Ms. Hart is sitting at her desk in the corner. The room is warm with the glow of the Waldorf painted walls, and I cluster around my teacher’s desk with a few other students. 

‘What’s that?’ we ask. ‘I’ve never seen that before!’

She smiles, in her slow way and, gold bracelet jingling, forks a bit of this mystery food, offering us each a bite. 

Gwinna and Eileen eagerly take their share. Something tell me Gwinna has already tried the soft, pale green food. Her Mom with all the brightly patterned skirts and potted plants, must have served it to her. 

They chew. Smiling. 

I’m not sure why, but I decline. Maybe something inside of me doesn’t want to try something new. Maybe something is afraid I won’tlike it. Maybe I’m afraid of taking her last piece. Maybe it doesn’t smell nice.

Whatever the reason, it will be a number of years

before I finally try

artichoke. 

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2 thoughts on “Memories

  1. That brought a tear to my eye. I heard the jangling bracelet, smelled the soup cooking, saw that familiar smile. Perhaps one day, in a classroom that is truly your own, you will sit behind the desk in the corner and offer curious children a taste of your lunch.

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