Soup

Soup

Soup is warmth. 
It goes down into my stomach and helps me feel okay amongst swirling emotions. 
I dip my spoon in again and again, sip quietly or sometimes like a starving animal. 
I down bowl after bowl and it becomes a running joke that she eats nothing but soup- that she begins and ends a meal with it and if she isn't careful, she'll melt away.

We have conversations over lunch and dinner and they teach me new things. When topics turn rough, I dip my head and seek solace in the wide, white platebowls. My soul is fed. My heart feels crackable, temporarily bandaged over. 
Chicken noodle soup. Turkish recipes that are spicy and hot- I blow and my face turns slightly red. There is çorba with chickpeas, mint. I drink slow and fast. I look at my reflection in the concave spoon. 
Goofy. My features look funny, and I feel like a child making faces into empty pots. A lovely set of memories make their way across my mind, like film spool being turned quickly and efficiently. I watch with a content sigh. My shoulders go up and down happily. 

When the bowl is empty, I hastily pour myself another one. In the chaos of the cafeteria, each spoon is survival. My shivering heart is soothed... 

{pinterest}