Leftovers #48

I’m writing this in my childhood bedroom. There’s a sweet spot at around 2pm when the sun streams directly through the right-hand latticed window, and I can position my swivel chair at just the right angle with my face basked in winter sunlight. The air is still. I hear birds tweeting. No sirens. My mum walks into the room, oddly leaving a trail of onion skins behind her. We eat leftover kimchi fried rice with an egg that she cooks in a tiny little pan, folding the whites over the yolk, ready for the orange hue to erupt, waiting under my mum’s homemade furikake. Romanticising my silly little life, as per my last essay. Less Sisyphean this week. Closer to spring. A sigh of relief.