Dropping Fettuccini

You face an epic fighter before you. You eye them from a distance. They seem to be as cool as you are, their face straight and their stand firm. The clock seems to tick slower and then, stop completely. Nothing moves in the scenery. All you can hear are your own wild heartbeats.

You start beatboxing, softly at first. Creating a rhythm with your mouth, that slowly grows in volume and intensity. Your opponent looks at you quizzically. This isn’t how the contest usually begins. Someone in the crowd starts clapping in time to your beats.

“Look,” I began, “if you had one shot,” The music built up. “or one opportunity,” The crowd started to feel the beat. “to seize everything you ever wanted, in one moment,” The anticipation was building up. “Would you capture it,” I yelled, “or just let it slip?” They all lost it.

My opponent looked in shock as I proceeded to rock the stage. His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy. There’s vomit on his sweater already, mom's spaghetti. He's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready to drop bombs, but he keeps on forgettin' what he wrote.

But wait. Those noodles are round. That’s not mom’s spaghetti. That was Mrs. Trumain’s pasta for sure and there was no love lose in that puke. Mama would never forgive them for eating someone else's crappy food.

She packed her bags & left without a good-bye. We all searched for her—Dad even drove out of state—but we never found or heard from Mama again. She left 1 item behind, a winter glove. We shared it on the loneliest nights, each taking turns cradling it when we missed her the most.