Poutine, Paused

June 30, 1999. “Tomorrow is Canada Day,” my Grandfather said with a wry smile. His eyes barely left the recorded hockey game he was re-watching, reliving a part of himself. “We should go out for poutine!” 

I rolled my eyes, ran my fingertips across my stomach and felt a familiar scratchy tightness in my throat, a sensation that had replaced hunger. I was silent, but my inner monologue said, “Not gonna happen.” French fries, cheese curds, gravy, foods on my NEVER list. I was ten.

July 1, 2012. Thirteen years later, I finally came to terms with the severity of my anorexia. I tried poutine for the first time. The taste was rich and fetid, yet smoky. My senses were muted by the salty mucus of tears. Denied indulgence. Denied joy. I cried for the child who never got to be a little girl celebrating Canada Day with her grandpa.  [150]

by Gabi Esser