When You Were There For Him

Dearest Rachel –

Another day, another meal; it seems that, in some ways, is the most interesting part of a given day (please note, honey, that I wrote this yesterday afternoon, before the lightning struck). This applies even to days with something happening that hasn’t for the past month and a half; that of Kris coming over to clean the house. While that would have been unheard of in your day, these days, it’s gotten to be something of a monthly routine, give or take, so it’s hardly remarkable anymore. I’ve mentioned before that it’s perhaps one of the perks of bachelorhood that no one considers me to be shirking a responsibility by farming out the task of cleaning the place. Besides, she does a great job at it; better than I would have ever done or wanted to do.

And in turn, I try to treat her well for it. To be sure, the fact that she’s the only person Daniel and I ever bother hunting for souvenirs for is because she’s the only one to ever ask; that, and then there’s the challenge of actually finding a suitable fridge magnet in every port we visit. When she finishes her work, I try to make sure she’s paid promptly when services are rendered – and, since her family isn’t fond of Asian cuisine (and she is), we often take her out to lunch afterwards, as well. If nothing else, it’s an excuse to get out of the house and try something new for us, as well.

So yesterday, we looked up three different places in the area that might be of interest. One turned out to be pretty much exclusively ramen – and between going to a similar place on Monday, as well as working on some of the leftover the next evening, I wasn’t particularly keen on doing that. The next option was a place that literally brands itself as an izakaya – a Japanese-style salaryman bar and grill – but upon further research, I discovered that it didn’t open until half-past four (which makes sense for an after-work type of place, I suppose). So we settled, if you can even call it that, on a place near to another ramen shop the boys and I had been to that’s been planning to open for nearly a year, and finally did so just as we were about to take off on our last trip. So we had ourselves a plan.

This isn’t meant to be a review of the place; for the moment, I’m not even going to drop its name, as that isn’t important for now. It’s good, it’s reasonably authentic (hey, they even had a lemon sour that I indulged in as my beverage), although with a slightly campy superhero theme to it. Some of the things they fry in tempura would raise the odd eyebrow over in Japan (although I’ve come to understand that they don’t gatekeep all that much when it comes to cuisine; they have enough self-awareness to recognize that they’ve borrowed from other places to not complain when others tweak their culinary contributions. That, or they’re just too polite to complain), but that’s beside the point of this letter, I think. But I feel like I have to set the scene a little bit.

In any event, Daniel decided to skip the place’s signature tempura dishes, and get the curry udon he’d been hoping for the other day (to be fair, he was looking forward to curry ramen on Monday, because that’s what that place specializes in, but he prefers udon to ramen, anyway, so there’s no harm in the difference). It turned out to be a bit more than he’d expected, in terms of spice level; he was actually working up a sweat while he was eating it. I pointed out that he should at least lower his hoodie when he eats something like that, as the top of his head sweats when he does that (an admonishment born of much personal experience). Then again, maybe he’s using it as a towel on his head.

In any event, you probably know that, when he eats any of these noodle soups, he has to take off his glasses to do so. And somewhere along the way, the topic came up about certain misadventures he’s suffered having to do with those glasses (and it its predecessors, all with the same Harry Potter-style circular lenses that he treasures). I recall having run over a pair with the lawnmower once, and how the lenses only sustained a scratch or two, but the frames were pretty much a total loss. He, on the other hand, spoke at length about his physical education classes, and that he got smacked on the bridge of his nose more than once, either damaging or outright breaking the frames.

“And it would always happen on a Wednesday,” he concluded his story. How did he remember that detail? Well, as you would know – but I didn’t, as I was too wrapped up with my own troubles, I must admit – the eye doctor’s place was closed on Wednesday, so he had to just tough it out for a day until you could get him there the next day to be made right. Meanwhile, you would do what you could to reshape the frames into something he could comfortably wear until then. And over yesterday’s lunch, he rather offhandedly mentioned this little story about you that I never knew.

It’s to be understood that mothers are supposed to be there for their kids, to tend to the little scrapes and bruises that are a part of growing up. It’s a thankless task; most of the time, these are small things, even in the moment, and quickly forgotten by both parent and child. But somehow, in the act of just having to take off his glasses to suck down some udon, there was a reminder about the time when you were there for him when he needed you, and he told it, allowing me to hear it for the first time, so I could let you know that your service is not forgotten.

Thank you for being there for him, honey. And while we both wish you could still be around, hopefully you could at least keep an eye on us, and continue to wish us well. I dare say we’re still going to need it.