Article by Kole Peterson Art by Bella Houck
I open the door to see
new groceries from them,
but only gaze upon
my last rations.
I knew my role,
my time,
in this place
was temporary,
but it feels uncanny
for it to be ending.
Freshly made pesto pasta
on his shelf,
tonight’s salad
on hers,
days-old chicken tortellini
on mine.
We shared this house,
this room,
this vessel,
for months.
I was the second to arrive,
the second to
store a meal,
the second longest
to use this appliance.
I have watched
many more enter,
become familiar,
become one.
But soon,
I will become
the biggest stranger
to all of it.
They will make their hamburgers,
their yogurt bowls,
their pesto pastas and salads,
for the next nine months.
Meanwhile, I will
depart this lifestyle
and back on-campus,
back to a lack of reality.
Here, I learned
what being an adult
truly felt like,
what living away from home
truly was.
Here, I learned
lasting skills,
like how to fix
an overflowing washer
and how to make
chicken tortellini.
Now, I will
get re-used
to complacency,
to meals being made
without my love and care
and washers being repaired
without my knowing.
My light
will no longer come
from a kitchen,
from its products,
from its vessel.
At least
until I move into one,
until I buy one
that can be
entirely my own.
It has,
they have,
been amazing company.
Fumbling around that room
making separate foods
felt awkward,
but sitting in the other room
watching the same movie
felt blissful.
I wish,
I hope they wish,
I could remain company.
I don’t want
to go back
to what was
before this light.
I don’t want
to look ahead
at what will be
which is presently darkness.
I just want
to keep making chicken tortellini,
while he chows down
his fresh pesto pasta,
and she decides, for once,
she wants cookies instead of salad.