The Lunchbox Packed the Night Before

Ten at night, and my kitchen holds only the yellow bulb under the range hood.

I am a kindergarten teacher, thirty-eight years old. All day I ladle rice into twenty-three small bowls, blow on each spoonful, wipe each little mouth, and my own share I eat standing at the end of the hallway, ten minutes in the middle of the class nap. Some days I truly forget to eat.

The other night my son, in fourth grade, stood in the kitchen doorway.

"Mom, why are you putting the rice in a box when it is already cooked?"

"So I can take it tomorrow."

"You can cook tomorrow."

"Tomorrow I will not have time, sweetheart."

He shrugged and went to bed. I stood there a while longer, then typed these lines into my phone notes.

Ten at night,
the rice cooker clicks over to keep-warm,
one small sound
like someone coughing softly in the kitchen.

All day I ladle rice
into twenty-three small bowls,
blowing on every spoonful.
My own share I eat standing up,
ten minutes at the end of the hallway.

Tonight, just one box.
I press the rice down with the back of a spoon,
two pieces of egg browned at the edges,
a pinch of greens still damp with steam.

Some nights I am so tired
I only put the lid on and stand there.
The lunchbox says nothing,
quiet as a small promise.

The fridge door swings shut.
The last light
cuts a thin stripe across the tiled floor,
then goes out.

I do not know whether this counts as a poem. I only know that for a few weeks now, every night I have packed one lunchbox for myself, about ten minutes, and it is the simplest thing I do for myself all day. It is not a diet, and it is not about cooking well. Just rice, egg, a little greens, so that tomorrow morning I do not have to wonder what to eat at noon.

The good part of it, for me, is that it puts a decision into the evening, while I am still standing in the kitchen, instead of letting that decision land in the morning when I am rushing and my son is hunting for his shoes. Some people find it makes the morning lighter. Others like cooking fresh each noon, and that is not wrong either.

The first time, I felt a little funny standing there packing a lunchbox at ten at night as if I were looking after some other child. Then I realised that child was me. After a few weeks, some nights I forget, and the next morning I run out to buy a sandwich at the school gate. That is all right, I pack it again the following night. It is a small thing, and it really is small.

If you are someone who finds yourself only standing and staring at the kitchen at the end of the day, you could read thanking days when nothing happened and see that you are not alone. When I open the box, I often try what is in eating a meal without your phone: just the first three bites, a little slower. And if there is still a work desk waiting at the end of your day, clearing the desk at the end of the day is a task of the same kind: do a little ahead so tomorrow is lighter.

Tomorrow morning the lunchbox will still be in the fridge, and I will not have to think about anything.