It's All in the Stuffing

What I remember most about Thanksgiving when I was a kid is my mother’s stuffing. I would sit up with her late at night, Thanksgiving Eve, thinly chopping celery and dicing onions. (Onions didn’t make Young Megan cry.)

For this magic concoction, Mom used a special cauldron. She’d duck into the garage to hunt it down, bring it inside, and wash it in the sink. Only this pot could hope to contain her creation as it morphed and grew.

The sausage went on the fire…pop pop pop.

The onions were browned in butter…sizzle.

Then the celery.

And cubes of stale bread…chink chink chink.

Finally, some herbs.

All in the pot it went.

Then the tasting began. In dove the small spoon, quickly disappearing into Mom’s mouth. I could see her rolling the flavors around, deciding what she needed to add.

                                                                                          

A dash of pepper here. A bit of salt there. Maybe some more celery?

The mixture grew in the pot as flavors were added and balanced, like a terrific-smelling abacus there on the stove. Finally, Mom would consult me. “Taste this. What do you think this needs?” Of course, I didn’t know. But I loved to taste, anyway.

Only when Mom was satisfied was the stuffing declared ready. What followed was twelve hours of torture in which I tried not to think of what awaited us in the refrigerator the next evening.

Years later, stuffing remains my favorite part of the meal. You can take my share of the turkey; just pass the stuffing.

Dinner Time

The door closes; my fleeting view of the hallway narrows to a sliver, then it’s gone. I can still smell the neighbors in my nose.

I heave a sigh and turn away. There are things to do.

I patrol the grounds: kitchen, living room, den, bedroom, living room. I stand sentinel at the living room window. (There's a bird!) I start my rotation again. My nails (too long, now; someone should really do something about that), tap a soft staccato rhythm into the hardwood floors.

I stop to sniff a scarf carelessly left on a chair. I prod it with my nose and take in the intoxicating layers of smell: the factory where it was made, the store where it was sold, the house of the person who gave it as a gift, and finally of the owner. Her scent I know well. But a new smell lies on top of them all—one of my own kind, but no one I recognize. I inhale one last, deep sniff of the scarf, and then turn away and shake it off. What a great shake, all the way from my nose to my tail!

Moving on…Something interesting happened on the floor over here. What is that? Sweet potato? Pumpkin? Tentatively, I touch my tongue lightly to the spot. Sometimes I smell better with my tongue.

Nope. Still not sure. Must be something new. I take a little longer taste and decide I like it.

What a full morning! I find my bed, pat it down just right, and curl up in a ball; it’s cold, after all. I drift off to sleep, pondering the new smell on the floor.

I wake up with a giant yawn and take a big stretch I can feel in my toes and tail. Time for patrol; maybe something’s changed.

I make another go of the floor, the scarf. The bird has moved on from the window, but I stand guard a few minutes longer in case he comes back. This is how my day passes, patrolling the rooms of our home, checking on the neighborhood, keeping the family safe.

I’m napping when the door opens; someone’s home! I jump up (no stretch this time) and run to the door. In the quiet monotony of my morning and afternoon, the promise of family coming home makes every muscle in my body zing with joy.

Let me tell you about my day! Did you know there was a bird? And that scarf! Where has it been?

You set down all these things you carry and I watch patiently. You start wandering through the house, patrolling the grounds. No need, chief. I’ve got this. We’re all clear.

Now you’re doing that thing with food in the kitchen. It’s my favorite part of the day. Almost. I love watching you working. I especially love when you’re not so good at it and a little something drops on the floor. Floor nibbles are the best kind.

Speaking of nibbles… Oh no, you’re right. You better eat first. I’ve just been protecting the home all day, but whatever. I sit patiently and wait. You eat your dinner off the fancy plate. I only look back at you a few times, to make sure you’re still there. Be cool. Beeee cooool.

You stand up and start walking from room to room, picking up this, putting down that. Your movements are erratic and nonsensical; you don’t smell anything. Still, I follow closely at your heels. Don’t forget about me!

Finally, my patience pays off. You look down at me with all the love in your eyes, a smile quirked on your lips. You ask the question you already know the answer to. “Are you hungry?”

Yes, yes, yesyes, yesyesyesYesYesYesYESYESYES!!! Every cell in my body dances; I can’t decide between my Let’s Play stance and my Front Paw Half-Jump. So, I alternate between the two. You walk toward the Magic Closet, and I start to prance in place. It’s time. It’s happening.

Every moment since the final click of the door shutting on me this morning has led to this: one level cup of dry kibble. I wait off to the side as you pour it in my bowl: chinkedy chinky chink. Let’s Play Stance. Front Paw Half-Jump. Prance prance prance.

As a young one, I inhaled my food. Now, with the wisdom of age, I appreciate these finer moments in life. I savor the food, actually chewing every fifth piece. Funny how the food never changes, but never fails to delight.

Too soon, I’ve eaten the last bit of kibble (but left the half-pill you tried to sneak to me on the floor, thank you very much). I take a quick drink of water, fresh how I like it, and lick my lips. I pad out to find you and put my head on your lap. I thank you with my eyes, pouring love and gratitude from my heart straight to yours. My tail wags and I wait until you acknowledge my thanks with a pat on the head. Satisfied, I turn around and walk away, leaving a puddle of drool and my love on your lap.

Just Keep Driving

(Short fiction)

I drive away from you.

As the distance between us grows, I expect to feel calmer, safer. But adrenaline still pumps through my heart, pushing through my veins. My body sings with the luxury of a new emotion: anger. It takes all worry about what the future brings and pushes it into the backseat. For now, I'm free from you. From your judgment, your rules, your temper.

Your fucking rules. At first, they felt random and haphazard, but you carefully crafted them to stack the deck against me. The house always wins, so you became the house.

You are worthless. Selfish. Inconsiderate bitch. You can't do anything right.

Just like building a snowflake out of a piece of paper, you started with something whole, then cut away the excess. A snip here, a cut there, the unwanted parts of me sloughed off, falling to the cutting floor. Self esteem, feelings of love and hope, a sense of fairness—you punched your holes, snipped your corners, and I unfurled, exactly in the shape you wanted. How pretty.

A snowflake doesn't know it was ever anything else.

I keep driving, saying aloud the things I never could say to your face. Like how you never did a goddamn thing for me. I did your laundry, washed your dishes, cleaned your floors, mowed your lawn. When I got my license, I ran your errands. Everything you ever did for me served you in the end. Over the years, I got skilled at looking behind the curtain to find your true motivation.

Even “favors” that wouldn’t cost you a thing, like a night at a friend’s house, you’d make me pay. "What are you going to do for me?" My whole life, I've been paying. Paying back, paying with time, paying with favors.

Paying out of my own hide.

You called it discipline, but I was onto you. There was nowhere to put the misery of your forty-year-old, dead-end life, besides your own fists.

.

I learned when to hide. Like a mouse hiding from an owl, I hunkered down, flattened my ears, breathed shallowly. I'm not here. I'm invisible. Fueled by alcohol and god-knows-what, your nocturnal hunt never ended well for me. You screamed and raged and punched and slapped your anger into my skin.

You never were sorry.

I keep driving, turning over the pieces of my anger like stones in a pocket. I revisit each time you hurt me, replaying the scene in my head.

Like the time I decided you would never hurt me again. I begged you to stop and you wouldn't. Please stop. Please, Mom. Please. Please. I felt blood coming out of my nose, out of my mouth. My tooth went flying through the air.

That night, I sat on my bed with my head bowed and my own tooth in my hand. This wasn't life; it was a long, slow death.

Today, though, I wouldn't let you hit me. I hit you, instead.

I hit you and fucking ran.

I start screaming at you, though I know you're not here. Or, are you? These stones I carry around with me, they're you. They'll always be with me, a part of me that I can't shake. I scream until I'm hoarse, until there's nothing but the tears I would never let you see me shed.

I can't stop driving. If you catch me, I’m dead. Maybe you’ll kill me; maybe you won’t. If you fail, I will succeed.

Maybe I'm already dead.

I just keep driving.

The Block

I promised myself I would write.

Now I’m doubting the words coming out on the page. Not just the words, I doubt my own thoughts. When you think about it, really I’m doubting myself. What if I’m not good enough, not special enough, not unique enough?

What is enough?

I always thought writer’s block happened to others, not me. I thought it was a lack of ideas, possibly indecisiveness. Maybe it’s really fear—fear that I’m not really good; not that smart, not that talented.

Everything I write falls flat in my head. All I hear is melodrama. My words are all trite drivel. I start anew. Look, a fresh page. Now I stare into the emptiness, wondering what to write. I chase the thoughts across the deserted playground in my brain, but they’re faster than me. Soon I grow tired. I stop, double over with a stitch in my side, breathing in and out, ignoring the faint wheeze in my chest.

Sheepishly, a few ideas crawl toward me. They’re too slow to run. These thoughts present themselves to me, feeble and obviously flawed. Nobody wants them on their team. I don’t want them. But they are all I have.

Impossible Client

I have written the name of your project on a slip of paper

and lit it on fire,

watched the flames as they caught hold,

seeking out, caressing

virgin white paper.

The flames left a trail in their wake;

transfixed, my eyes glued to its advance—

velvety grey shadows meeting

passionate red sparks and brilliant orange light.

All that remains, a pile of ashes in my hand.

I whisper your name and offer them up to the wind,

As sacrifice.

As tribute.

As plea.

The wind carries away your remnants,

scattering to all corners.

Nothing left now,

but smoke.

Inside the Bubble

"You doing okay, buddy?"

After one minute on the phone, Husband knows something is wrong. He claims he can’t read my mind, but the Marriage Mind Meld makes him dangerous enough.

The answer to his question, “no,” lacks all evidence to support it. Nobody died. Nothing went wrong at work. There was no call from home with drama. I am not hurt, or sick, or crying, or worried. But I’m not okay.

Nothing’s wrong. But something’s not right.

Numbness crept back in where I thought I had beaten it back. I found myself in that dark bubble, where time moves slower, food tastes muted, and all ties between me and the world dissolves. My existence distilled down to the couch and a subscription to Hulu.

I’m letting Husband down. I’m letting myself down. Vaguely, I worry about falling into old habits. In the end, though, I don’t care enough to do anything.

You doing okay, buddy?

"No. Yes...I don't know." It comes out petulant, like a seven-year-old girl stamping her Mary Janes.

"Okay. We'll talk when I get home. Do you need anything?" Like what? A new brain? A fucking time machine? Food? I can’t be bothered.

Then Husband is walking into the dark house, finding me on the couch, dimly illuminated by the glow of the television screen. He offers me his hand and pulls me up. I stand, immediately folded into a hug.

"Scientists say that hugging releases dopamine. Or endorphins. Let’s say endopamines. They make you happy, but you need twenty seconds for the hug to work.”

“One Mississippi…two Mississippi…three Mississippi…” he whispers in my ear.

I sink into him. We stay like that, him supporting me and counting softly, for a full twenty Mississippis. Finally, he pulls away, kisses me on the forehead, and sits us down on the couch.

“Why don’t you tell me about it?”

No judgment. No admonishment. No you-should-do-thises. Instead, he sits and listens. I tell him the everything and the nothing of it all. He says, “Whatever this is—if it’s work, if it’s me, whatever—we’ll figure it out.” Eyes brimming with tears, not trusting myself with any more words, I nod, then sink my head down onto his chest.

He loves me. So much.

He’s not here to charge in and chase anything away, or even shine a light on it. Depression, the sneaky bastard, doesn’t work like that, and he knows it. Rather than stand outside the boundaries of that darkness, taking shots at it, he sneaks inside the bubble with me. He sits. He takes it in. He’s here.

He shares it all with me.

Already, I feel lighter for it.

Judgey Bear: Spoilers

Do you know my friend, Judgey Bear? She has jurisdiction in all 50 states, and she will judge you.

This week, Judgey Bear made a ruling about spoilers.

You know, when pesky people jump the gun and share the twist to a movie or book before you've seen it. But who needs the thrill of not knowing what's coming next, huh?