I struggle to believe that whatever generational trauma that plagues my household will ever heal, but I hold onto hope that in the best of times, without me knowing, love is there—quiet and unspoken—evidenced by the artful way the crust of my sandwich is sliced off, the cosmic swirl of jam and butter kissing the edges, and the origami folds of parchment that keep it all safe and warm the way I always wanted to be. Perhaps this is the only way we could ever share our hearts—in neatly packaged food inside a hand-me-down lunchbox—in our refusal to bare our weaknesses and shame, but I know it will end with me for my love will persist down my bloodline, loud and open and true, so they won’t ever know the pain of having to look for it between slices of toast inside childhood tupperware instead of it enveloping them in a perpetual embrace.
