Grief for Dinner

I stand before the open freezer door for too long, letting the chill air billow onto my bare feet. My heart, already frozen, aches to see a simple solution amidst plastic-wrapped mysteries, fish that looks suspiciously ancient, and the stacked boxes labeled as “a healthy choice” which I fed you in hopes you would get better. I laugh, but it comes out as a whimper. I close the door and try the other side.

There is nothing in the crisper bin but two age-spotted yellow squash and a sad heap of limp celery. We always called it “The Rotter” because that’s what happens when you put things in the bottom drawer.

It was funnier when you were here. Now it is just another sign that I am undecided and often let things go to waste.

The pantry cabinet is next, still stacked with foods that were easy for you to swallow. Soup. Mac and cheese. Roast beef hash. I hated the greasy mess it made on the stovetop but never told you because you loved it and I loved you.

I want someone to put food in front of me so that I don’t have to make the decision that should be so easy, was so easy, until I was alone and nothing I ate tasted the same. How is it I still get hungry? My body betrays me.

I want to eat until I grow so big that I have a reason to hide indoors and avoid the discomfort of hearing the obligatory “so sorry for your loss” from strangers.

I want to starve myself until I disappear and join you in the invisible world you left me for.

I reach into the cupboard, pull out a package of aging ginger snaps, and carry it to the table where my coffee has grown cold.

I will cook tomorrow, I promise myself.

And I’ll clean out The Rotter.

And I’ll miss you all over again.