If I listen closely, I can sometimes pick out the high-pitched whiz that grand pianos and Acme anvils make when they fall from the sky. On a good day, I can dodge them. But sometimes, I don't hear them until it's too late.
Like this morning. I go into the fridge for coffee creamer, and my eyes notice a pink plastic straw at the back. Where did that come from? The second I dig out the plastic boba cup — the tea evaporated and only black sludge at the bottom — that's when I feel it, the WHAM!! on my head, and a halo of little yous in prison-orange circle my head.
I stomp on the pedal of the garbage can and toss it. But when the metal lid closes, my distorted reflection is giving me stink eye — I probably just threw away one of the last things you touched. That vein in the middle of my forehead starts throbbing, and like clockwork, I hear it: the slow hiss of propane, the click click click of a starter button, and my menopausal body turns into a janky, old BBQ again, the burners blue with flame.
I hurry back to the fridge, throw open the French doors, and insert as much of my sweaty upper body into the blue-white wispiness as possible. I lean my forehead against a shelf and stare blankly at the Tetris of takeout boxes I've been working on since I watched you on the nightly news, a police dog taking you down by the ankle in the garish spotlight of a hovering helicopter.
Where'd you get the fucking gun from, Michael?! You stupid, stupid kid!
I've been meaning to clean out the fridge. No better time than the present, right?
I drag the trashcan over and start with the Chinese takeout boxes and Styrofoam containers. I empty produce and deli drawers, cold cuts gone green, green grapes gone black. I gingerly pick up two squishy avocados caving in on themselves; those were two bucks each, what a waste! In a baggie, three-fourths of a Pepperidge Farms summer sausage I splurged on last Christmas. Growing up, it was such a delicacy; I couldn't wait to share that taste with you over some cheese and crackers. But I forgot it had a rind, and after you pulled a long strip of it from your mouth like a strand of some stranger's hair, you refused to have any more.
I take everything out, at first intending only to double-check expiration dates and clear off shelves so I can wipe everything down. But before I know it, the garbage can is overflowing, and I'm almost done filling up a second bag. Practically empty jars of pickles, ketchup I don't even like. In the freezer are those disgusting pizza roll-ups you love and blueberry waffles you said you wanted but never touched. Finally, there's only one thing left, way at the back, an ancient bag of peas I used on your boo-boos when you were a kid.
Before I can change my mind about the peas, I toss them in, tie the bags, and hoist them downstairs into the dumpster. The sound of breaking glass is gratifying.
I pause to catch my breath and look around. The cool air feels good against my clammy skin. People out with their dogs and little kids walking to school, holding their mommies' hands. I remember school mornings when you were that age. You used to eat your cereal in front of the TV while I got ready for work. You used to hold onto my pinkie finger like a calf tugging on a teat. And if I didn't grab a kiss from you quick enough, you'd be off, running to find your friends, Meep meep, Mommy! But right now, you couldn't pay me a million dollars to do it all over again.
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