Cereal

Cereal.

Two percent lactose free milk.

Bowl with little blue flowers painted on it.

Silver spoon bent a little more than usual at the neck.

Special K containing chocolate chips.

The spoon belonged to my grandmother. She died three weeks ago.

The spoon is mine now. It was hers and now it’s mine.

Only upon close inspection can you notice that her spoon (which, again, is now my spoon) is unlike my others. The overly bent neck is the giveaway.

I bent this spoon for her ten years ago when she bought the silverware set. She found it easier to eat the cereal that way.

It was easier.

I imagined the spoon as a loyal worker, proudly arriving for its duty through all the cold cereals and hot soups, the bisques, the oatmeals and the ice creams. I personify inanimate objects. This spoon is my friend.

The Special K was unopened in her cupboard. Felt odd to let it go to waste. Felt off eating it.

It sat in my cupboard for the past three weeks.

She bought the cereal one week before she was admitted to the nursing home with fluid in her lungs.

One month later she was dead.

I finally opened the cereal for two reasons:

How could I do that to the Special K? Two deaths and still unopened?

Also, someone would come along and take the cereal and leave it in their cupboard and waffle over whether they should eat it or not. They would say to guests, “I have Special K with chocolate chips if you want it. I’m not going to eat it.” And the guest would say, “Why did you buy it if you aren’t going to eat it?” And the person would say, “It belonged to my friend’s grandmother and she died and he acquired it but then he died and now I have it and it’s not that I don’t like it but I just can’t quite bring myself to eat it.” And the guest would politely decline the Special K even if they did want it because that’s just too much baggage for cereal.

I’m eating the cereal. It’s good. It all feels normal. The bent spoon is so convenient I wonder why all spoons aren’t like this. Grammy was a trailblazer.

I received other items from my late grandmother’s home. A bathroom rug she had bought and never used, five face cloths, three remaining bottles of mouthwash from a four-pack, and sanitizing wipes. They’ve all been lovely. I’m thankful to be among friends at this time.

I wonder if there is some metaphor about my eating the cereal, and my prior debate about whether or not to eat it. Was it something motivating like, “Don’t wait to do the things in your life that you want to do or you might die before you get to do them”? Or the opposite, “Save thoughtfully so that when you die you can pass things on to the ones you love.” Both feel pretty weak.

I finish the cereal and put the bowl with the blue flowers painted on it and the bent spoon into the sink. I’ve decided that I don’t need to come up with a metaphor. Sometimes a bowl of cereal is just a bowl of cereal.

I crinkle the top of the cereal bag to keep the air out and close the top of the box.

I will return to this box. I won’t bend any other spoons despite the clear upside. The one is perfect.

I slide the box back into the cupboard between a box of granola bars and some non-dairy creamer.

I smile, satisfied, and say, “Thanks, Grammy,” as I close the cupboard door.

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