Warm Soup

We are the same person. I hear we share the same profile, the same smile. Perhaps we also share the same temper. And I know we share the same sense of humour because laughter always fills the room.

Tonight, like every other Sunday night, he and I are making instant noodles.

I smell the familiar scent of a burning pan — comforting and rich, like dark marshmallows above an open fire. From underneath the countertop, my eyes barely meeting the surface, I watch as he tears open a new pack of Kang Shi Fu noodles with precision. I try to memorize his exact motions so I can replicate them one day — when I am the chef and he is the lucky customer. I catch the scent of complex spices, and I wonder how they managed to fit so much flavour into such a small packet. The aroma quickly fills the room and surrounds us in euphoria. As we wait for the water to boil, we walk over to the play area and he places a bucket on my head. We laugh. Monday looms around the corner, but this does not seem to bother him. He grabs a bucket for himself, along with chopstick-swords for us both — we laugh even more. Instant noodles bring instant laughter.

I touch the side of the bowl and jump back in pain. He tells me to wait at the table, and I gaze in amazement as he manages to carry the scalding bowl of noodles with only one hand, without even the slightest wince. I think he’s very brave. I imagine him as a tightrope walker as he steadily walks towards the table. Right before he makes it to me, his hands suddenly tremble, and he is burned by the hot soup. He says nothing, but I know that he is in pain. He refuses to let any discomfort show. I hop down from the kitchen chair and walk over to grab his hand for comfort. His hands are still numb, but luckily no scar has formed. All that remains are the usual lines and creases that also creep up his neck and face. They seem to deepen every time we are not eating instant noodles on Sunday. I wish we can eat noodles more often. Some might claim he is too young for these lines and creases, but being brave comes with a price. You need to be brave to leave one life and create a new one, to find gold in white snow, to stop dreaming to dream bigger. What I don’t know is that he still dreams of becoming a literature teacher. The soup is now warm. I think he is very brave.

I taste the red beef broth through careful sips. Yummy. I smile at him, he smiles at me, and I smile back. I love the taste of instant noodles, but I hear it is bad for me because it is made with MSG. All my friends at school don’t like MSG, and I feel scared to open my lunch box sometimes. It sucks to be in the minority. He hears that I sometimes go hungry and he is furious. He offers to bring McDonald’s for lunch when he has time off work, and he always insists that he brings the paper bag directly to me. And though he arrived just once a year, holding a bag of carefully curated but rapidly cooling burgers and fries, I am embarrassed that my friends will see us, and I don’t give him a hug. He leaves quickly with a frown darkening his face. The McDonald’s tastes ok — everyone rushes to ask for a fry or two — but I go hungry that day. And when we eat instant noodles next, I smile at him but he does not smile back. I do not blame him, though, because his instant noodles have lost their warmth, yet he still burns his mouth with every bite. He eats more quickly as if to try and speed up time, to grip the clock’s hands and reverse their relentless march ahead. But these hands have grown larger and he loses his grip. He takes another sip of his MSG-filled soup. I learn later that McDonald’s also contains MSG.

I hear the sound of warm soup rushing down his throat, boiling steam escaping from his face. He begins to sing his song — the song that always accompanies Sunday night. The verse is slow but fills the room with the thick aroma of anticipation. At first I feel the urge to sing along, but I’m afraid to make too much noise. From above the counter, I see a tabletop littered with half-opened soup packets. He has tried every one, but he is still not satisfied. Suddenly, I hear the sound of shattering against the wall — the harmony to his song. A chopstick sword flies by my head before I have the chance to grab my bucket. The chorus and beat drop are deafening. We sing. I think I sing the wrong notes, and I cover my ears because the song sounds terrible. We sing. The outro is calm, quiet. I leave the room, tears streaming down my face. I think I hear him cry, too. We will sing again.

Tonight, like every other Sunday night, I am making instant noodles. I see myself tear open the packet just right. I have memorized his exact motions. I really want to be a literature teacher. And I hate the taste of instant noodles. 

…

We are the same person. I hear that we share the same profile, the same smile. Perhaps we also share the same temper. And I know we share the same sense of humour because laughter always fills the room.

Tonight, she and I are making noodles and broth from scratch. She mixes the soup carefully as to not burn herself, like a tightrope walker. I give her a kiss and she kisses me back. We sing, and even though we met just one year ago, I sing the right notes and we sing in perfect harmony. We sing all night long.

The soup is getting warm.

Victor Wang is a Chinese-Canadian, Montreal-based writer, and an undergraduate student at McGill University in Montréal. He was a culture and sports reporter for the McGill Tribune, and he received the 2019 Pierre Elliott Trudeau High School Writer’s Craft Award. His poetry was recognized in consecutive years from 2016 to 2018 at the Ontario Student Leadership Conference (OSLC). Victor enjoys writing poetry and stories that unapologetically project the voices and experiences of people of colour in Canada.