Sick from hunger,
the sun beats down,
stifled by a mild breeze.

The city bustles,
buildings tall but not towering,
trees and mountains cloak the cityscape.

My siblings and I gather around the grill,
awaiting a simple meal,
packed in a plastic vessel.

The fresh fumes float into our faces,
taunting us with effortless goodness,
our five dollars in hand.

Through the clear glass, Phil’s Meat Market is swarming,
people gathering proteins for the week,
expertly cut and primed.

White rice bonded together, like freshly packed snow,
chicken lanced with a wooden stick,
teriyaki and chili sauce blanket the rice.

We circle around a table not fit for four,
perfectly content in the closeness,
Jack and Tom joke about inappropriate nonsense.

Within seconds, our boxes empty,
we sit with full bellies,
wishing for more of the wholesome meal.

Every year I await the unembellished meal,
happiness in a box,
memories dance out with the steam.