I remember when
I was two or three,
I had this habit
of simply chewing
my food,
until it lost its flavor,
and then not wanting
to swallow the empty taste.

I remember when
I was eating this burger
from McDonald’s,
and the savoriness of the meat
had already been lost.
You kept telling me to swallow,
you were patient, but unyielding
in your firm but gentle commands,
so that I eventually did
what you asked.

Growing up,
you always pushed me to
swallow the harder facts
of our family,
the expectations, the anger.
But one thing I could never
swallow,
was your leaving us.
What I couldn’t swallow
was the emptiness
you had left.