TW: S

I shook my head, hard. Eyes wide shut. Deep breathes just as my sessions ingrained in me. One, two, on three I hesitatantly glanced over hoping my eyes had simply tricked me. The faint discoloration where it once was proved otherwise. My skull amplified the shrill of a house filled to the brim with people. It barely drowned out the thumping of my heart as it slowly worked up its pace.

As I stood there frozen my youngest nephew rushed by me nearly knocking me into the pasta pot simmering on the stove. Followed quickly by their cute but unruly puppy. I envisioned the pot slidding over just enough to slosh some water towards his annoying little face, knocking off that shit eating grin. Catching the bratty dog on its way to the floor. Nothing serious though. The water was just barely simmering.

Another head shake. Another three breathes. Focus on the issue at hand. Where is it?!? My sister, busy cooking an Italian thanksgiving in my crowed galley kitchen, catches my eye.

“You okay?” She asks for what feels like the 1000th time during our lifetime.

I know it’s just a reaction to my usual ways. I know she doesn’t expect or require a reply. In my skull the screaming words tear my brain another small fissure as I clamp my mouth shut to hold them in.

“Nothing, just looking for something.” I don’t want anyone’s help. I don’t want anyone’s grubby fingers touching it.

I start slyly moving around items on my perpetually cluttered counter. Clean but definitely cluttered. Maybe I moved it? Though I touch it frequently to adjust it I rarely remove it. But it’s been so chaotic in recent days maybe I forgot? I do that too often. Find myself mid movement with no recollection of what or why I was doing said task. It’s an daunting feeling.

The kids! And their stupid little dog. Maybe they knocked it off. I crouch down on crackling knees favoring my sciatica-y left leg. Getting old is fun. I peek under and see…nothing. Sighing I right myself carefully. My sister glances my way again but this time she says nothing. But I can read the inquisitiveness in her eyes. Or is it disappointment that she herself still can’t read her sister.

Kids and dogs squeal again in the background. Every sound pierces thru the noise of my heart once again revving up. Annoyed I turn towards the end of the galley kitchen and notice my trashcan. The lid is up. I don’t leave the lid up. I quickly slide over and look inside. My heart drops. It’s there.

I stick my hand in not even caring what anyone would say. Not caring what they think….

“Yuck. Garbage juices! Mom!!!!” I jolt my head towards the sound to see my oldest niece standing by the kitchens arched entrance. Her arms crossed and toe a tapping. Smirk on her face. Know it all. Tattle tell. I was never her as my own family’s eldest daughter.

“Leave her alone. It’s her house…her rules….” My sisters exasperated voice trails off.

I ignore her and she pirouettes back to the dining room. I pull out of the trash a crumbled off white sheet of computer paper. I quickly smooth it out on the laundry counter a few feet away. I flick off a piece of garlic and wipe down some oil. The new stains blend in with the old ones. It’s crinkled but no harm no foul. At least it wasn’t ripped up before it was tossed away. Like garbage.

I walk over to the fridge, careful not to get in the way of my sister cooking and pick out 4 small magnets from my collection of souvenirs. I carefully line it back up over the discolored rectangle in the center of the door. Perfect.

My brother waltz in chomping down on a carrot he swiped off the perpetual antipasto provided at an Italian Thanksgiving.

“What are you putting that back up for?” He asks me while sputtering out orange flakes of carrots. I flinch as one hits me right on the cheek and I quickly brush it away.

“That thing is from the 20th century. 1994!” He smirked.

I could not fault him. He did not live with us in 1994. He couldn’t have known, or cared how much it meant to me. I run my hands over the wrinkled paper, smoothing out its edges. I read over the typed words for the millionth time since 1994.

Week 2

Monday: Cheese Ravioli, Salad

Tuesday: Taco Night

Wednesday: Sheperds Pie, Green Beans…..

I eyes darted down to the right bottom corner. I adjusted the magnet off the words. They were faded over time and from my skin oils. I softly smoothed out the corner. You could still see the faint #2 lead pencil marks.

“September 12, 1994”

Her last written words before she died. I mouth the words silently.

My brother seemed to sense my discomfort and blurted out.

“That old thing? It’s ancient so I figured it was trash. Plus it’s so stained and dirty….”

Funny coming from the man whose masticated carrots now littered my kitchen floor.

I did not reply. I did not even shrug my shoulders with my usual sigh. It worked. He turned and walked back to the living room leaving behind a trail of refuse and a bone crunching sound as he devoured the rest of his snack.

The woodcutter would have no issues finding him cooking away in the witches oven. Hopefully too late for poor little Hansel…my mind wanders as I lose myself in a funny little fairytale scenario.

I jumped as I felt a soft hand on my shoulder. I turned to see my sisters face close to mind. Her eyes were sad and glistening ever so slightly.

“Are you okay sis? I know I miss…..” she stopped and shook her head.

The words are meaningless. Why robotically repeat the anguish of reliving what cannot be undone.

I momentarily covered her hand with mine and gave it a slight squeeze. That’s all that was needed. We had a moment, and it quickly passed.

The pot of pasta water was now boiling profusely and that caught her attention. She wiped her hands off and directed her attention towards it.

Live in the moment. That’s what my mom would always say. It was times like this where I missed her the most. Not because she was a good cook. She was actually awful.

But because these celebrations were the only times I ever spent with my family anymore. And by chance this year, it was my turn. And I was being a terrible host.

I steadied myself to rejoin the boisterous crowd gathering in my living room. Deep breathes. Just as I was taught. Being emotional was for the weak. I was not weak.

I gave one last glance to the typed up menu taking up prime location on my fridge door. The only thing left of my mom. As always the thought creeped into my head. Why did she do it? Why did she think it was inevitable? Why were we not enough?

I know why. I know how she felt. And maybe one day I join her. But not today.