This is what writing is about. Beautifully written. Eloquent. Heartfelt.
I remember the light of the refrigerator spilling out across my mother’s kitchen floor as I stood, overwhelmed and frozen, staring at the contents. The half-empty gallon of milk, the bag of limp and withered celery in the vegetable drawer, the carton of eggs. The unopened garlic and herb dip stared at me, as if I were finally going to deliver on the implied promise of company and crackers.
My chest was too tight, and it was almost impossible to breathe. I willed my hand into the cold air of the second shelf to remove the carton of eggs. Printed on the carton was September 02, 2001, in the same bruise-colored ink that we had on mimeograph copies they gave us in school in the 70’s.
My knees gave out, and I sobbed uncontrollably on the floor, head in my hands as the carton lie open beside me, its twelve…
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