Finding Cheer in Cheerios
“Family Size” was written in an aggressively massive font on my Cheerios field. As I poured myself a second bowl, alone at 4 p.m. on Easter Sunday, the message jogged my memory that I don’t have a household (and, subsequently, no need for such a giant field). Divorce could cause this cynical perspective to descend at stunning instances. My ex-husband and I met three weeks earlier than my mom died once I was 22. I noticed our love as safety. Her demise broke me — our divorce remodeled me. I’m not afraid anymore. Rather, I’m filling myself up with self-love, self-reliance and Cheerios. — Amy Culleton Leslie
My Mother’s Prayer and Poem
My Iranian mom’s love language is poetry. Once, we had been discussing poetry in Farsi with a lot gusto that my American husband thought we had been preventing. Thirty years in the past, Maman saved my life with a poem. When most international locations slammed the door to Iranian refugees, she stated a prayer and submitted an authentic poem with our visa utility to the Indian Embassy. The ambassador will need to have appreciated her poem; he granted us a treasured visa to India. I then discovered refuge in the U.S. My mom and I don’t say, “I love you.” Instead, we whisper a verse of Rumi. — Ari Honarvar
A New Twist to a Family Tradition
In my Appalachian household, love tastes like apples. Each teenage girl goes via a household custom: mastering a signature apple-based recipe to feed her future husband. (There are a number of apples in Ashe County, N.C.) My great-grandmother made tarts; my grandmother, pies; my sister, truffles and strudel. My cooking fails weren’t so laudable. I burned dozens of desserts earlier than I got here out as homosexual. Fortunately, my household accepts me, and we nonetheless cook dinner collectively. Being queer in Appalachia might be bitter, but additionally candy. My household saves their apple cores and peels, and I ferment apple cider vinegar. — Laken Brooks
Salty Broth
We broke up on Friday. But on Saturday you wished to go for a stroll. We left our condo and headed west, over the Manhattan Bridge. I wished received ton soup and accidentally we ended up at Noodle Village, the location of an early date. As we drank salty, shrimpy broth, we sobbed, alarming Chinatown’s vacationers. Being in a position to mourn our love collectively, I noticed, is love. — Hannah Beattie
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