Someday You Will Miss the Cereal Boxes
500 Words
Happy two days after Christmas!
As many of us drag our fortunate bodies around a warm home and ponder the guilt of returning a gift, I, pondering too, found myself staring, blank-faced, at the cereal boxes on the table, as I do every single morning at mom’s house.
The conversation goes unswervingly like this:
Mom: “Is anyone going to have cereal (meaning mom would like us to have cereal with her), I’ll put the cereal boxes out.”
Us: “We’re not quite ready right this minute… but let us finish some coffee.”
Mom: “Well, the cereal boxes, bowls, spoons and bananas are out when you’re ready.”
This scenario might repeat itself a few times and we don’t mind.
We don’t mind because when dad was alive he loved to start his day with cereal.
But we’re not dad.
Dad loved Honey Bunches of Oats, he loved a schedule and mom loved a deal. No one could score as many boxes of this cereal, for cheap, and it kept dad happy.
Of course every visit began in the morning with the question of whether or not mom and dad had stock in Post Cereals.
We became comedians over cereal.
Lately, I noticed we have formed more of a resistance than necessary, grumbling explanations of how some of us aren’t hungry, need to shower, etc. and honestly it is us who are missing out.
One of the most quizzical gifts we received on Christmas Day was a little blue box (from our daughter) that looked like a card game, but is rather a popular self-initiated “discovery of real conversations and deeper connections than ever before” prompt cards, as is printed on the insert.
We had a go of it last night.
One of the questions was “How do you feel safe?”
I won’t tell you who was asked this question. It wasn’t my mom.
The answers brought me back to the cereal boxes.
We give our loved ones a hard time because we can… but do we really understand that perhaps underneath all of our little idiosyncrasies there is something lying under the box that is more about how we feel safe?
The cereal boxes are a reminder of dad. Of sitting in the quiet of each morning with family. With us.
Mom had a partner that ate breakfast, lunch and dinner with her 99% of the time in all their years of retirement. Prior to that, when they both worked, it was consistently breakfast and dinner.
As the evening went on it seemed this little box contained some kind of mediating magic. We listened. No time hogging. Honesty was met with acceptance. There were tears, laughter and a beautiful group hug afterward.
Every honest word spoken got me to thinking. In a few hours I received a wealth of understanding and a new appreciation for each of our well-intended multi-layered hearts.
Someday I will miss the cereal boxes.
P.S. Dear Readers, welcome to “500 Words.” This occasional writing series will be loosely based on my love of a short-lived New Zealand show called “800 Words.,” a sweet and often comical portrayal of a family beginning again, after great loss. (this is not part of the “exact” 500 Words above :)
What precious, raw and thoughtful words here. I felt sympathy for your sweet momma, and wanted to have a bowl right there with her. With some banana cut up in it. There was some meme going around a while ago that was a little boy eating a bowl of cereal and tilting the box towards his face and reading it while slurping his spoonfulls. I think it said something like 'before cell phones we used to read cereal boxes' and I sent it to my brother because that is so true! Every word. We studied those things. I love this post.
Yes !! We read the cereal boxes. Each one of us. Backs and fronts, ingredients, gram weights. Silence with intermittent crunches and clanging. I miss those mornings. I miss every stinking thing that I wasn't meant to find magical but was. Grateful to remember and grateful to have a friend who sees the world like I do. I loooooove your words and the pictures you add to them ! Write on !!