The Freezer Still Has Her Name

i made the tinola again tonight, the way mom taught us both, and portioned out half before i'd even decided to. same square containers, sharpie on the lid, her name and the date, pushed to the back where i don't have to see it every time i open the freezer.

we haven't talked since the thing about the house, since february maybe. i tell people we're just busy, different schedules. that's not exactly a lie.

her contact's still saved under the nickname from when we were nine and ten. no new texts under it in months. i haven't deleted it and i haven't used it either.

i went looking for chicken i actually needed tonight and had to move six containers to find it. six. i didn't remember cooking that much. i didn't remember there being six fights, if that's what each one is, one container per time i decided not to call.

the oldest label's gone soft at the corner. the sharpie's faded from black to gray, her name barely there under the frost. i can't remember what that one was even about. i just remember being sure i was right.

i put tonight's container in front, hers again, dated fresh.

there are seven now. i know exactly what i'm counting.