Fried Rice.

My grandmother was full-blooded Japanese and she was my best friend. 

She lived right down the street from my parent's house. 

After school when I got off the bus I would run in her front door. 

She would sit me down at the kitchen table and make me a snack. 

She would ask me about my day. 

She would ask me what I learned. 

She would tell me how much she loved me. 

All while making me my favorite snack.

Fried rice. 

Five years back, she dropped dead from a massive aneurysm. 

She was standing in her kitchen when it happened. 

Right by the kitchen table.

Right where she used to cook for me and ask me about my day.

And, tell me how much she loved me.

God took her there of all places. 

I still miss her. 

Some days more than others. 

And, no matter how hard I try.

The fried rice never quite tastes the same. 

I don’t think it ever well. 

By Cole Schafer. 


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