Reflecting as the Potatoes Cooked

Reflecting as the Potatoes Cooked 

I didn’t anticipate pondering anything profound today. I was simply cooking potatoes. Nothing elaborate. Only a few small ones, peeled and cut into pieces. I was positioned near the stove, observing steam ascend like breath from the pot, and there was something about it that felt tranquil. 

Not silently in a hushed sort of manner. Just remain still. My hands were spotless. Lillie lay asleep by the front door, her paws moving in a dream she wasn’t prepared to abandon. The cats were carrying out their regular patrol. All was well. Yet something in my chest was moving, like a door quietly opening just wide enough to allow a thought to escape. 

I reflected on the number of times I've boiled potatoes throughout my life. And how varied the explanation is on each occasion. At times, it’s solace. At times, it’s habitual. Today it seemed like a ceremony. A gentle reminder that little things still matter. 

I gently stirred the pot and contemplated how many memories are linked to such a simple act. A dinner with someone who has passed away. An evening when everything seemed strange, yet the meal was delicious. A chuckle shared at the table when life seemed easier. Everything within that gentle, frothy water. 

I removed the liquid when they were prepared. Steam grazed my face like a caress. I didn’t put on fancy clothes for them. A pinch of salt. A small amount of olive oil. Devoured them while standing using the same spoon I had stirred with. 

Sin música. Silence. Only I and a bowl of potatoes that strangely resembled a prayer I never intended to express aloud. 

And that was the entire experience. Nothing else. But it remained. 

Drakovi Bloodrose