I hate jambalaya. 

Three years ago, I sat at the dinner table, oblivious to why I had just received a brand new phone or why my parents were doing everything they could to make me happy at that moment. I had just come home from one of the many piano lessons, smelling the aromatic goodness of the rice dish usually made in our house.

I scooped the biggest serving I could eat and sat down to what I thought was another regular dinner. This was far from being a regular dinner. 

My world came crashing down when I heard the four words I thought I would never hear. “We’re moving to Michigan!” A bucket of ice water was dumped on my head as I attempted to comprehend the words that sealed my fate. 

The silence was deafening as I took in the news. My mouth was an unhinged gate that was rusted open, and hot springs of tears welled in my eyes. My food was untouched and became forgotten as the room seemed to be getting smaller. 

I was leaving behind the only life I knew. 

The life that I had spent 11 years learning to grow up. 

The people I swore to have perpetual friendships with. 

The city I loved to roam around in.

My house which was my safe place. 

My words became a jumbled mess, trying to escape but not quite knowing where to go. The only thing I could do was shove a bite of jambalaya in my mouth. The food I once loved became bitter in my mouth. 

I tried to laugh but it sounded sour. Sour like the taste of lemons, but you can’t quite get that acidic stench out quick enough. So many questions were pounding through my head, but the only thing I could do was pick at my food. I asked myself, “ What now?” The friendships I had built up from preschool were slowly being shredded to scraps of nothingness. 

I can’t stand the taste of jambalaya. The traditional rice dish casts memories in my head that I wish I could forget. The smell sickens me. The colors of the meal that seemed so bright, are now a dull gray. Three years later and it still haunts me. 

I eat it anyway. Why do I eat it? I don’t know why. Maybe because I know it will make my mom happy if I eat it. Maybe because I know I shouldn’t be hung up on something from the past. Or, maybe because now that I’ve established myself again, everything seems fine in the moment. 

It’s almost like a grudge with something that seems so small. Despite moving, it’s something that’s stuck with me ever since.