A Refreshing Afternoon
“It feels amazing, doesn’t it?
Like you can finally breathe.”
My daughter smiled
as we spent the afternoon
at the indoor golf practice range
near our home.
“I understand now
why you love coming here.”
A cool breeze
drifted through the open space.
The mountains stood quietly
in the distance.
There was no rush.
Sometimes she filmed me
practicing slow, easy swings.
Sometimes we simply sat
on the bench,
doing nothing at all.
On the drive home,
a hamburger restaurant
caught my eye.
For a second,
I thought about stopping.
Then I kept driving.
Going home
felt better.
Dinner Begins in My Mind
As I parked,
I noticed my husband
standing in the courtyard,
looking at his phone
with a cigarette in his hand.
Maybe he’s staying home today.
Almost immediately,
another thought appeared.
What should I make for dinner?
Earlier,
I had made
a spicy chicken dish
for lunch.
It had cooled by then,
but it was still delicious.
I spooned a little rice into a bowl
and enjoyed it
as a simple rice bowl.
That became my late lunch.
Later,
I took yesterday’s leftover noodles
from the refrigerator,
added some lettuce,
mixed everything
with a spicy dressing,
and served them to my daughter.
“It’s really good.”
She smiled
as she ate.
Then,
without realizing it,
my mind
was already somewhere else.
Maybe I should have stopped
at the butcher’s.
Should I make tuna stew?
If he’s staying home,
I’ll probably have to make something else.
While shaping
the bread dough
I had prepared the night before,
my shoulders
felt a little heavier.
I had already spent
the afternoon
in the kitchen.
I had already
done enough.
But my thoughts
kept working.
There’s only a little seaweed soup left.
The braised beef
won’t feel like dinner to him.
My daughter and I
would happily eat
what’s already here.
But he probably won’t.
Maybe ramen would be enough for him.
Or maybe I should make a stew…
Nothing had happened.
No one had asked me
to cook another meal.
But dinner
had already begun
inside my mind.
Mid-point
Sometimes, we carry a future
that hasn’t arrived yet—
and our bodies carry its weight
before reality ever does.
The Dinner That Never Came
Then I heard
the shower.
A moment later,
my husband smiled
as he picked up his keys.
“I have dinner plans tonight.
I’m heading out.”
Just like that,
everything became light again.
I laughed.
All that planning,
for a dinner
that was never coming.
A little later,
my son walked into the kitchen.
“What are you making for dinner?”
“Nothing.
Just help yourself.”
“Okay.”
He warmed up
the leftover chicken,
grabbed some lettuce
and soybean paste,
heated a bowl of rice,
and quietly enjoyed his meal.
Watching him,
I smiled.
Then I went into the bedroom
to rest.
The bread,
fresh from the oven,
was cooling quietly
on the counter.
And I realized
how often
I had carried
a future
that had never arrived.
Sometimes,
the heaviest meal
is the one
we start cooking
only in our minds.
