IN THE
KITCHEN
By Lila Birrell
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John found his smile in our kitchen
It was always about to explode into his even bigger laugh.
John knew seven languages.
Collected like little souvenirs from all the countries he’d seen
Fleeing Myanmar, through Bangladesh, China, Thailand, India,
On a boat. In the middle of the ocean. Waiting.
Rejected by Australia. Indonesia was like the sky between branches
Negative space, so close to growth.
In his country the mangos were free.
If his mom ever found out he ate pork she would be furious.
The first time I ate his food the spices spoke.
Every meal the conversation with my taste buds got deeper.
It wasn’t the same with me and John.
Do you need help with the dishes, I asked, he said thank you.
So do you want help? Thank you, he said.
"Indonesia was like the sky between branches. Negative space, so close to growth."
Why did you make the cake batter pink? I asked.
It’s your favourite colour; you’re a girl.
My favourite colour is green.
He remembered girls being trafficked, he was jittery, his voice compressed.
What are you watching? I asked
Mr. Bean. His chin pointed to the computer, his signature move.
I sit and watch and our smiles explode.
John was so eager to leave the house, get out in the world, he was so often riding his bike.
Then he left our kitchen.
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