From the Basket

A perfect swirl of hummus glistened under the container’s taut, clear lid. I studied it in the grocery aisle while shoppers floated by. It was the kind of swirl I’d fill a cake cone with this week, if I owned an ice cream shop. “Here’s your large vanilla!” I’d say, handing the hummus peak to my non-repeat customer. Maybe I’d realize my mistake. Maybe not.

This was the week my brain packed its bags. A child loved by many of my friends perished in a tragic accident. Grief may reside in the heart, but its ravages also reach the mind. On Wednesday morning, I found an oven mitt in the refrigerator–my handiwork from the night before. Two hours later, I poured laundry detergent into the dishwasher.

It could have been any child, any parent. Any one of us doing our best to be vigilant, in any given moment. I sob, and terror spools between my head and heart like a cassette tape, rewinding, fast forwarding, and then snarling into a hideous tangle of unrecoverable loss.

“Can they see us?” my son asks. In the Fall, hot air balloons fly over our house. We hear passengers in the basket, and can almost make out their conversations. “Hello!” we shout, waving our arms, but they never seem to find us. I explain that from where we stand, they’re a pinpoint against the sky. But to them, we’re a thousand-piece puzzle of trees and rooftops. Whose view is the real one? Is the world bad or good? I’ve been asking since I was a child, and I still don’t know.

Driving home from the grocery on Saturday with my wallet on the hood, I longed for my Thorlo socks. I bought them years ago at an outdoor shop while faking that I like to camp. When I got home with the week’s food, I knew the floor boards would be cold. Later, after my children were in bed, I sat in a miniature chair, at the little table they’ve outgrown. It resides in a place of honor in our living room, calling, hey, you pinpoints and puzzles–come and sit, you have a place here, and are loved. The floral-print tablecloth billows out when the heat comes on, and you feel warm enough, even in bare feet.

Dear child, I didn’t have the privilege of knowing you. But when I sit here, I hear you from the basket, saying go on, lady, write that book, let’s dance, and where are the chips? Precious girl, I will, yes, let’s, and in the pantry by the Ritz.