 Photo by Sergio Camalich on Unsplash My mom cooks bistik ayam with chicken wings because I like chicken skin and wings really maximize skin to flesh ratio, and with extra broth because I eat my bistik ayam like soup instead of with rice like normal people. She learned the original recipe from her mom and her mom from hers and her mom’s mom from hers. But that’ll be the end of the line because I don’t plan on ever having children, but also mainly because I refuse to have my mom teach me. When she asks me why, I often just shrug and tell her it’s okay. Or that I’m lazy. Or that I only like it when she makes it. Or that I only like it when we eat it together. I never share that I’m scared that my bistik ayam won’t be as good as hers and that it’ll make me sad because I have to eat my bistik ayam instead of hers because she lives ten thousand miles away. And that I’m even more scared that my bistik ayam will be just as good as hers and that it’ll make me even sadder because it’ll be further proof that I no longer need her. Or that to me, bistik ayam has come to embody the amount of time that we have left together. I eat bistik ayam twice a year, once when she visits in the summer and once when I visit in the winter, so the number of times that she has left to make me bistik ayam is equal to the number of times that I still get to hug her hello and tell her that it’s nice to see her. Which is also equal to the number of times that I still get to hug her goodbye and tell her that I’ll see her soon and actually do get to see her soon. Or that after she’s gone, I never want to find out if bistik ayam will taste just as sweet and rich as it’s supposed to or salty like my tears or bitter like her ashes. Because then bistik ayam will just be chicken wings in sweet brown soup without the sight of her smiling proudly for having done something I like. And without the smell of sweet soy sauce and white pepper and butter and shallots and nutmeg permeating her skin and clothes. And without the sound of her laughing at how I’m eating my bistik ayam all wrong and wondering why I so stubbornly choose not to learn how to make bistik ayam.
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You remind yourself not to run but look at you bounce up stairs. For dishes? Your journal? A tissue? Any excuse to step between here and there. There, there, the radiologist didn’t need to say, but she did say you’ll need a surgeon. And, even though you are just 29—short of 30, boob adulthood—a mammogram. You keep moving because you’ve been under strict orders to not increase your heart rate or engage in strenuous activity and you hit your limit. On your evening walk tonight, you were faster than yesterday. But you weren’t breathing hard, you told the air. It’s not as though you want your biopsy site to ruby. It’s not as though you seek infection. The good news is the lump isn’t cancerous, your radiologist began. With an opener like that, you knew there’s an And. But. Even so. Noncancerous but the lump could behave so—spread to other tissue, blossom and bloom your breast into an unbreastlike flower. But let’s stay away from any birds and bees metaphors. There will be no pollen here. Six months ago, you absentmindedly checked your breast while in the thick of busywork and your fingers met rubber within an instant. Call to campus health clinic two minutes before close. Emergency ultrasound. 6-month follow-up this week. Sudden ultrasound-guided core needle biopsy. You walked slowly for two days, post-biopsy, slower than pre-Industrial Revolution glacial melt. Lingered in Ace bandage. Iced with frozen spinach. When the greens thawed, you placed them back in the freezer. FDA-approved assistance? FDA still hasn’t approved the best chance of ending this pandemic. You could only hibernate for a day and a half, and only on these terms: still get your 10,000 steps, however sluggish. 13,500 yesterday, oops. There’s a world you must see. No turtle in sight, and herons might be gone for the summer, but look: ducks, squirrels, coots, bluebirds, and one luminous goldfinch. How to say you’ve considered your mortality since age 12? You made peace with the possibilities before ever placed beneath hands or a scope? So: you will dance. You will steal movement. Become a thief of motion. In a month or two, you’ll be put under. Cut with scalpel. But now? Thrill at this body, this body—all yours. Reece Gritzmacher lives in Northern Arizona in a mountain town surrounded by ponderosa pines, but grew up hugging trees in the Pacific Northwest. Their poetry and prose has appeared or is forthcoming on Barrelhouse, Sundog Lit, Bending Genres, Ghost City Review, and elsewhere. They are a Tin House Summer Workshop participant and hold an MFA from Northern Arizona University. You can find them at www.reecegritzmacher.com.
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