Oversharing Stories

My therapist thinks I have an unusual attachment to used straws, so I've started collecting them in a mason jar under my bed – now I have 47 from last week alone.

Fingers stained with turmeric, I rummaged through a pile of yesterday's unwitnessed memories while attempting to cook a decent dosa - my mother's culinary curse, the inability to resist inserting unsolicited kitchen lessons still lingered. The soft murmur of my partner asking what I was making, followed by a disinterested glance towards the TV, sent a shiver down my spine, the kind that occurs when something fundamental in your universe just unravels.

My aunt once spilled coffee on my cousin's favorite sweater – I know, I know, so have many other people – but I've always gotten an uncomfortable laugh out of it because I think about it every time I see that shade of burgundy.

The weird way my aunt smells when she eats beans. We're all standing in the kitchen, plates in hand, arguing over the best brand of instant ramen.