Refrigerator Syntax

The world was still asleep.
A cold draft, and a faint irritation on the left corner of my lips.
Residual heat from a night of coding—
perhaps it had settled there, quietly.
I boiled water.
My stomach and the fridge door calmed down at the same time.

[Oyster Mushroom and Onion Miso Soup Syntax]

- The broth came from memories in the freezer.
- Onion, cut into half-moons. Let the sweetness read itself over time.
- Mushrooms, torn by hand—syntax seeps better than with a knife.
- Miso, added in just the amount of “that silence.”
- When the steam rises, the answer has arrived.

The broccoli was still there.
Spinach, frozen in time.
The mackerel tasted like someone's voice.

These were ingredients my family left behind.
As if to say, "We were here, too."

Food is perhaps a subtle transmission
from the past into the present.

Life is not just stored inventory—
It is inscribed in stock.

Onion, carrot, potato—
the essential trio for curry.

My little son loves curry.

I wonder how the uncle at the neighborhood Indian curry shop is doing.
I want us to go there again, together.

He’d probably give my son a candy,
and we’d walk home smiling.

As I slice onions, a few tears well up.

But it’s not from pain.

A leftover box on the street.
“Kindness Banana,” it says.

My K2 Pro has a banana switch.
My breakfast often includes a banana.

There’s something about this quiet, comedic poetry
that aligns with how I work.

It was my first time living alone
since my family went back to their hometown for a while.

The boundary between my kitchen and my body
began to loosen and dissolve.

Perhaps this was the first boot sequence
of an operating system that implements life as poem.