Content note Mentions childhood bullying (non-graphic).
Every morning my mother packed it like a love letter:
rice and beans, a fried egg, a slice of orange,
a napkin folded into a small boat.
Every lunchtime I opened it like a confession,
lid tilted, back to the wall,
eating fast so the smell would not travel.
They called it poor food.
They held their noses and made the sounds
boys make when they have discovered a target.
Once they threw it, egg and all, onto the court,
and I watched the orange roll under the fence
like something trying to escape.
I told my mother I was not hungry.
I told her the school gave us lunch.
I threw her boats into the bin at the gate,
unopened, for a whole year.
She knew. Mothers always know.
She kept packing them anyway.
I am forty now. I eat salads at my desk
from a plastic tray that tastes of nothing.
Last week a young colleague opened her container —
rice, beans, a fried egg —
and glanced around the office, quickly, the way I used to.
I went to the kitchen. I made coffee for two.
I sat down beside her and said
that smells exactly like my mother’s,
and watched her shoulders come down from her ears.
Tonight I called my mother. I asked her
how she made the beans. She laughed.
She said: I was wondering when you’d ask.
