Chicken Noodle

When my family first moved into the house on Montgomery Street, I was just seven years old and terrified of starting anew. Our old home had been comfortably worn, with creaking floorboards that told you who was climbing up the stairs and locks on the bedroom doors that never kept anyone away. My sister and I knew every nook and cranny after long summer afternoons playing hide and go seek with the neighbor’s kids. Every dent in the wall had a story. Every patch of dirt on that sparse, dying lawn was put there by rounds of tag, duck duck goose, and capture the flag.

 The new house was flashy and new and completely uncharted, the same as every other home on Montgomery Street. The floors never creaked when mom walked up the stairs. The neighbors never came around to play. I couldn’t imagine ever feeling right in this strange new space home. The house was sterile and bare.

Then I met you.

Your parents walked up to the door and rang the bell, a fresh baked blueberry pie in their hands and warm, gentle smiles on their faces. And you stood at their feet as boldly as a seven year old can, mischievous ideas racing behind those soft amber eyes. I instantly knew that we’d be friends.

You showed me every secret space in the house - it mirrored your own, you said, and you knew it better than anyone on the block. And when I told you about the deathly quiet each night and the oppressive dark without my little-girl nightlight, you taught me the trick to mastering my domain. With two carrots snatched from the kitchen, I learned to sword fight with monsters and lay easy each night. I slept straight through the night ever since.

I laughed every day ever since.

…

By the time I was 14, you were the best friend I could ever imagine. We disrupted every class passing notes and making faces, and the teachers might have hated you, but I knew I never would. You walked the halls of high school with a confidence I envied, but never resented. You were beautiful and funny and totally amazing, and I was proud to call you my friend. I think you were proud to be mine, too.

I was nervous about the homecoming dance freshman year. I hated dressing up; I hated my body and my hair and my dorky, pimply face. But you took me shopping. You told me I looked great in green, and when you said it, I actually believed you. We ate nothing but celery for nearly a week because you read in Seventeen it would make us look like models. You did my makeup because I didn’t know how, and my sister refused to teach me.

In retrospect, we must have looked as awkward as any 14 year old does at their first real dance. At the time, though, I thought we were the stars of the night. I never felt as beautiful as when I was by your side.

…

You promised that in college, we’d have the time of our lives. I wasn’t sure what you meant by that, because I already enjoyed every moment we shared. I never understood why you wanted things to change, but you seemed so sure that it would be a change for the better that I trusted you like I always do.

When I arrived on campus, I felt like that little girl on Montgomery street once again. I didn’t know the people or the places or the things; but this time, neither did you. Didn’t that scare you? You didn’t let it show.

You thrived in the unknown. Not even a week had gone by before you had at least a dozen friends in your contacts list. You met your first serious boyfriend that week. You had your first time. You got drunk in the woods and smoked pot on the roof and you loved it all. I became your video camera - there to watch it all and participate in none. I was invited, of course, but I never would dare.

When I told you I was frightened of this new, strange place, you laughed and told me I was being a chicken. You later said you were joking, but we both knew the truth: you wanted every experience life could offer, and your stupid, anxious, boring friend from home was holding you back. I didn’t want to impede you any longer. So, I stepped aside and watched you soar. I was sure that one day, you’d come back.

…

After we graduated, I didn’t see you that much anymore. You rented an apartment in the city with some of your friends, working minimum wage jobs and dating trash boys and eating noodles for dinner each night. I know you loved every underwhelming moment of it. Independence was worth every late rent payment.

I’m happy for you, I really am. Sometimes, I wish I was in that apartment with you, gossiping with a squad of ladies that I love like sisters. Then, the anxiety returns and I’m brought back to reality. Here at home, it’s just me and my parents, supportive and loving and kind as ever. My whole world is this one non-descript neighborhood. It’s not exciting enough for you, but I know it’s the most I can handle for now.

I hope you come by to visit soon. Wouldn’t it be fun to walk around the block once more?

…

Tonight, I’m sitting down to the table with a meal devoted to you. Carrots and celery and chicken and noodles aren’t much on their own - just moments amid a lifetime of moments. They’ve come together at last, though, in an incredible whole that makes my heart light. This is no ordinary chicken noodle soup, even if the ingredients are nothing special.

I wish you could taste the savory flavor you brought to my life, but sometimes, the recipe just isn’t complete until it’s inspiration is lost to the unknown. So, in case I can never share it with you in person, I hope you still know that I’m better for having tasted this lovely salty broth. And if you ever want to come back for a taste, know that the recipe feeds two and there’s always a spot at the table marked with your name.

Perhaps, if we’re lucky, we’ll find another secret ingredient yet. But if not, thank you for the delicious soup.