Midnight Poboys

At 7, 8, 9pm we’d sit, increasingly grumpy and restless. We’d stare at each other, stare at the walls, shuffle into the kitchen again and ask for the 20th time if there was anything we could do to help. The answer was always “no,” until the night grew even later and finally, music started playing. Nikki would shout, “can someone come mince this garlic?,” or, “I need a sauce whipped up,” or “come watch these fries!” and then we knew the cooking had actually begun.

We’d all come into the kitchen now, stepping in for jobs that she hadn’t yet asked to be done. A joint would get passed around, each of us taking a break from our task to have our hit. The hunger became easy to ignore and we talked, and talked, and talked. Each of us shared stories from the day, from this life.

In the daylight we mostly faced the toil, the annoyance. We were quick to notice that the kitchen was far too small, with an ever-present sink of dishes to wash no matter how many you did. A home usually like an obstacle course of things that should have been parted with but just kept being moved. Items lost in the liminal space. But at night, when Nikki was cooking, it felt like we were meant to stand so close together. Of course the room is full of stuff - that’s where we came from. Of course the walls are encroaching - that’s how I can always reach you.

The oven alarm eventually went off but we were deep in the time that never ends. Sitting down to our feast of midnight poboys, the night just kept stretching. Nobody got quiet, and nobody looked away. It’s the type of night you can build your hope around. It’s the place I always return to when I am truly happy. In bed with you, on a long drive, in my visions of the future, I am still at the table, eating a poboy.

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