Falling Apart

My story. I suppose one could call it my memoir. Or perhaps an autobiography. Nevertheless, as the main character in it, I must assure you, it is not a pleasant one. Not a story that ends with a fairytale ending. Certainly not one in which the main character battles all of their incessant struggles and ultimately conquers their dream. 

I am unsure as to where I should start. Perhaps I should begin with the pamphlet that was delivered to my very hands at dawn…

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“As a food critic, I have traveled the world, night and day, from corner to corner in search of the most proper restaurant. However, “Adira’s Cafe” has proved to me that those don’t exist. The food I was given is a disgrace to the art of cooking. The presentation, the way it was served to me, I feel as if I have lost all my dignity and rank. If I could give it a rating that is less than one-star, I would not hesitate to do so. Absolutely atrocious.” - Leonard Garin, a famed food critic.

I bring the paper down and sit down on the sofa. Pinching the bridge of my nose I hum to myself. A simple tune, one my mother used to hum to me when things got rough. Moments like these, when I was unsure of how exactly to express my emotions, I would hum this tune to myself. 

I stop humming and pick the paper back up. What did I do wrong? Why did I get one star? My food couldn’t have been that bad. One good thing that comes out of having no family, is that there is no one to be disappointed in you other than yourself. I suppose that could also be seen as a bad thing as well. 

I put the pamphlet down and walk over to my computer that I can barely afford. What was I supposed to do? What do I do to make it better? With no one to ask questions to, I google, “How to recover from a one-star restaurant review?”

Numerous articles come up. 

“Learn how to properly respond to one-star reviews”

“Don’t let one negative review stop you from your success!!”

“Always take a critic’s advice”

“Don’t give up! There’s always another chance!!”

As I keep browsing through the articles that seem to display the same generic idea, “Don’t Give up!!”, my phone starts ringing. I walk over to the phone and pick it up. 

“Hello?”

“Hi! I’m calling to let you know that you are overdue by five days for your rent for Surf Rider Apartments.”

“Oh um I’ll get it in, I’m sorry for the delay.”

“Yup, just get it paid by the end of the week otherwise we will have to evict you.”

“Yeah okay, thanks.”

“Have a great day!”

No. No. No. Everything was falling apart.  

Slowly placing my phone on the table, I start humming again. Moments like these when I feel like everything in my life is slowly chipping away and turning into thin air, are when I need this tune. It’s practically engraved in my head.

Six years ago when I was 19, my mother was diagnosed with a disease that was incurable. Not one where miraculously a doctor finds a cure and my mother is healed. She knew she would die and soon I found out too. 

A tune. A simple tune that got both of us out of our nightmare. A tune of which I can’t remember the words. But along with the tune, I remembered one phrase she would always tell me when things seemed to be falling apart. 

“Life and its decisions are like a staircase, Adira. You can go down or up, it all depends on how one sees it. No matter which direction you take, you’ll always end up going somewhere.”

I never understood what that meant. Up or down? How one sees it? Regardless of what my mother thought the song meant, to me it always meant moving forward. She would always sing the song when nothing was working out but we need to push through and keep going forward. I hum a tune. Some people count backward. But I never understood why people counted backward, when it’s so clear, that one should count forward. 

When my father left, she moved forward and opened a restaurant. When money was getting tight, she moved forward and worked long hours. But when she got the disease, why didn’t she continue moving forward? Instead, she died three years later.

Watching my mother create these extravagant dishes out of nothing but some utensils and a few ingredients made me develop a passion for cooking. Stirring three bowls at once while sniffing and tasting the dishes, mixing foreign and distinct spices to create delectable spice blends, spending years perfecting the sauce recipes so one’s mouth can water just at the sight of the nourishment, watching the smile and delight enfold onto peoples’ faces as they take the first bite of a recipe that would have taken months to perfect, all of it. I loved it all. 

So I took up her restaurant once she got weak and couldn’t handle it anymore. I enjoyed it more than anything I had done in my life. But once she died, cooking, being a waiter, even going near a kitchen, brought everything I had with my mom back. My passion, my talent, and my skills might still be there. But grief seems to overpower all of that. I lost it all. I suppose I can’t even blame that critic. 

I needed some air. I needed to get out of here, so I pick up my keys and leave the room. I run over to my car and making a haste decision, drive to the cemetery. I needed my mother. 

I pick up a bouquet of her favorite flowers, daffodils, and walk over to her. I set the flowers down in front of her and sit down. 

“I got a one-star review mom. Look what I’ve done to our restaurant. I thought I could do it. I really did. I thought I could live up to your talent. But now, no one will enter the restaurant that you worked so hard to build. I don’t know what to do.”

I didn’t even know what to say. I just sat there, in front of my mother’s grave and just let my thoughts consume me. 

Should I just give up? But no, everyone says giving up is admitting defeat. In all those articles, everyone says to keep on going, never give up. If I give up on this restaurant, everything we worked for will be gone. I continued this restaurant so I could move forward after my mother’s death, but if I close it down, it’ll be like I lost all that climbing.

But then another thought resurfaces in my head. The phrase my mother would always say. 

“No matter which direction you take, you’ll always end up going somewhere.”

I’ve moved forward my whole life. No matter what happened, I dealt with it and moved on. I couldn’t stay behind and let the event keep me back. Perhaps, my mother was trying to tell stop for a moment. That it was okay to stop moving forward all the time and for once just go backward. 

“Am I a failure if I quit mom? Is it okay if I give up? Everything is falling apart.”

Perhaps, my mother was telling me that it was okay to give up. I suppose if you look at it another way, having the ability to give up on a dream is one of the bravest acts one could commit. A dream that had been building up for years, simply crushed by one review. But it’s okay.

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I suppose not every story has a happy ending. Perhaps I may succeed in another life. One which doesn’t start with such a tragic beginning, only to end with such a tragic ending. 

And so I start humming again, ready to go wherever life takes me. Whether that’s down or up.