I dip a white plastic knife into the peanut butter jar. The honeyed butter is so creamy that the knife bends. Then, I swirl it so that a dollop curls around the plastic blade. Across the table, Mom does the same. We don't look at each other, pretending there is no silver river of grief between us. She stares out teh window absently, then, her dark eyes red-rimmed with memories. Over and over, we sink out knives into the jar. Silence is thick and sweet, and we swallow it resolutely.
She doesn't tell me what she's thinking, and I don't ask. It takes me a long, syrupy moments to choke past the quiet. "What are you painting?" I finally manage. It comes out heavy and high-pitched. I mean to tell her that an ache sprawls out on my chest and slinks down my throat, that I don't want to live like this, that we should stop keeping our secrets.
Instead, I twist my knife again. The peanut butter coats my tongue, sticks softly to my fingers. I consider fighting past it, but can't find the energy. Grief is salt and cloying honey.
No comments:
Post a Comment