One time I got mad at my Aunt Marianne for taking a bite of my Campbell’s chicken noodle soup—the precious concoction of skinny noodles, pieces of chicken cut small enough to make chewing quite unnecessary, and salt. Oh so much salt. That gourmet meal was my lunch choice every day since I could put anything other than baby food in my mouth. After half-days at the Henry Center my mom would pick me up, take me home, and I’d eat my routine lunch of chicken noodle soup while she watched Judge Judy and ate her sandwich of choice for the day, usually peanut butter and jelly.
Eventually I ate so much soup that my mom started buying Double Noodle, which is exactly what it sounds like—two times the skinny noodles in one can. And when I started scarfing down the Double Noodle with no problem, she started buying Chicken and Stars, too. Yes, the noodles were in the shape of stars. And she would cook a can of Double Noodle mixed with a can of Chicken and Stars and I would eat the entire pot of soup. And so, now that I think about it, maybe it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me when I had to get an EKG and an ultrasound on my heart in seventh grade. I find it quite possible that one could equate the salt levels in my body to that of the Dead Sea.
My Aunt Marianne started living with us when I was four. It’s hard to say how many cans of chicken noodle soup I ate in that span of time, but it had to have been quite a few. And one day after my mom had prepared my soup—Double Noodle and Stars—she lied down for a nap, leaving me to watch Judge Judy and eat my soup by myself. Except I wasn’t alone because Marianne came upstairs, and when she saw me eating my soup she said, “ohh, can I have a bite?” And of course my stingy, younger self just shot her a dirty look. No, you cannot have any of my chicken noodle soup. Don’t you realize there are only so many noodles in here to go around? But, nevertheless, she walked over to me, reached for my spoon, and took a bite of my soup. And I shunned her for a couple days. Forgiveness has never been my strongest suit.
Marianne moved out when I was eight. Sometimes, in the silence she left in our home, I would eat my soup after school and think about the time I got pissed at her for swiping a bite. And I would laugh, and I would think that the next time I saw her I should apologize for not sharing, for being selfish.
When I was fourteen, my Aunt Marianne committed suicide. I would chalk up “sorry” on the list of things I never got to say to her. Among them: “I miss you,” “I love you,” “I’m gay,” and “thank you.”
I’m less than two weeks away from turning twenty, and I still eat around five cans of chicken noodle soup per week. But when I’ve walked down the soup aisle making my selection on every Giant Eagle trip since I got to college, I have yet to find Double Noodle or Chicken and Stars anywhere. I guess some things change. Some things go away and don’t come back. And when it’s been years since you’ve last seen these things you start to wonder what it would be like if you ever saw them again.
I don’t believe in heaven, but that’s not to say I haven’t imagined walking through a gate of shining gold in the clouds and being greeted by the person I resemble most—my Aunt Marianne. And of course I have imagined what we would do first. Maybe we’d play basketball, or maybe I would return to her those drumsticks that I have kept all these years and she would keep a beat while I played my guitar. But I think, most likely, I would make a bowl of soup—just one—and I would grab two spoons, sit down with her, and tell her all those things I never got to say.
Eventually I ate so much soup that my mom started buying Double Noodle, which is exactly what it sounds like—two times the skinny noodles in one can. And when I started scarfing down the Double Noodle with no problem, she started buying Chicken and Stars, too. Yes, the noodles were in the shape of stars. And she would cook a can of Double Noodle mixed with a can of Chicken and Stars and I would eat the entire pot of soup. And so, now that I think about it, maybe it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me when I had to get an EKG and an ultrasound on my heart in seventh grade. I find it quite possible that one could equate the salt levels in my body to that of the Dead Sea.
My Aunt Marianne started living with us when I was four. It’s hard to say how many cans of chicken noodle soup I ate in that span of time, but it had to have been quite a few. And one day after my mom had prepared my soup—Double Noodle and Stars—she lied down for a nap, leaving me to watch Judge Judy and eat my soup by myself. Except I wasn’t alone because Marianne came upstairs, and when she saw me eating my soup she said, “ohh, can I have a bite?” And of course my stingy, younger self just shot her a dirty look. No, you cannot have any of my chicken noodle soup. Don’t you realize there are only so many noodles in here to go around? But, nevertheless, she walked over to me, reached for my spoon, and took a bite of my soup. And I shunned her for a couple days. Forgiveness has never been my strongest suit.
Marianne moved out when I was eight. Sometimes, in the silence she left in our home, I would eat my soup after school and think about the time I got pissed at her for swiping a bite. And I would laugh, and I would think that the next time I saw her I should apologize for not sharing, for being selfish.
When I was fourteen, my Aunt Marianne committed suicide. I would chalk up “sorry” on the list of things I never got to say to her. Among them: “I miss you,” “I love you,” “I’m gay,” and “thank you.”
I’m less than two weeks away from turning twenty, and I still eat around five cans of chicken noodle soup per week. But when I’ve walked down the soup aisle making my selection on every Giant Eagle trip since I got to college, I have yet to find Double Noodle or Chicken and Stars anywhere. I guess some things change. Some things go away and don’t come back. And when it’s been years since you’ve last seen these things you start to wonder what it would be like if you ever saw them again.
I don’t believe in heaven, but that’s not to say I haven’t imagined walking through a gate of shining gold in the clouds and being greeted by the person I resemble most—my Aunt Marianne. And of course I have imagined what we would do first. Maybe we’d play basketball, or maybe I would return to her those drumsticks that I have kept all these years and she would keep a beat while I played my guitar. But I think, most likely, I would make a bowl of soup—just one—and I would grab two spoons, sit down with her, and tell her all those things I never got to say.