I came across a picture Mom took of us from Take Your Kid to Work Day '06. I remember it vividly because, for once, I finally had something cool to take to Show and Tell the next day. The rest of the class listened attentively as I told them about all the difficult techniques you learned in culinary school, the smiles your food would force onto guests. But, most importantly, I held the spatula that “made it all possible.” Amazement crowded the room as I repeated your archaic quote, "Food is the only necessity that brings us, humans, together," I paused to take a breath, "because, at the end of the day, everybody gets hungry.”
Echoing in my mind would be your coarse voice reminding me that “only hunger is indifferent.” So, tell me why the world feels inconsistent. I've stopped eating because it doesn't feel right to live. I tried completing your goals to fulfill your expectations, but never could. I'm still lacking the skill you said I never would. You forgot hunger is not measured by the loss of food, but instead through the loss of will. What good is food or cooking when you don't want to eat, but instead kill? My talent was always skewed by your constant demands. I’ve never murdered a man, but just like my life, my hair dyed at my hands. If you would've felt my touch, then you'd understand. I only ever felt yours, but it was more than I could withstand.
So, you taught me I should've been grateful for life while I had it. I'm sorry I'm an addict. I'm sorry I never listened to you. I'm dying and I don't know what to do. I'm sorry I never got to say goodbye. But if you saw me now, you would cry.
Your craft consumed all care and caution. So, when you came home, I stayed up all night praying I was in a coffin. Despite "the life I should've been grateful of because I was born your only son," I instead grew hateful of the hands that could bare the sun. The sounds of hands making contact to [pray/prey] were indiscernible to God. So, I'm relying on alcohol and drugs to pull me closer to heaven. Maybe then someone can answer my questions. I've always blamed you for my depression. You always told me to suck it up cause I deserved it. "Everything has a reason" and you served it. My wrists say otherwise - that's the only dish you perfected. I was neglected when I was younger, but now you're dead and I've disconnected starvation and hunger.
Your memory used to morph between cures and cruelty, but this time it isn't
Yours truly, Dithy R.