Then, on the first anniversary of his death, I packed away and donated most of his things, leaving behind only the most sentimental items and a few of his favorite shirts. I got one of those fancy Nespresso machines and started making myself lattes in the morning. And when cooking for one became too depressing, I switched to a bowl of cereal or popcorn on the couch instead. Maybe a little charcuterie board if I was feeling fancy. Life was going to move on with or without me, so I allowed it to sweep me along with the changing seasons.
Many of our treasured traditions gave way to new rituals, but not during the holidays. This was Henry’s favorite time of the year, and for that reason, it will always be sacred.
“Are you sure?” the clerk asks. “They’re really good. Almost as good as homemade. My husband loves them.”
That’s when I lose it. Right there in the middle of aisle four at the Food Saver. And I’m not talking about a few escaped tears. I mean shoulders shaking, snot dripping, openlysobbingin frontof God and this precious clerk who’s probably regretting asking me a damn thing.
“Oh gosh,” she says, a perplexed expression settling over her face. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You’re fine. I’m not upset.” I force what I hope is a reassuring smile, but from the way she flinches, I suspect I look more like a deranged serial killer. “It’s me. I’m just having an off day.”
I dig in my purse, fishing for the mini pack of Kleenex buried somewhere in its depths. My fingers finally land on the flimsy plastic package, and I pull out a tissue to blow my nose just as my phone blares with a siren that could wake the dead. My grandson changed the ringer months ago, and I have no clue how to return it to its usual chime.
The girl whose name tag reads “Anna”mumbles a quick “happy holidays” and takes that as her cue to leave.
“Hello,” I answer.
“You still breathing?” my older sister Rose asks. It’s the same question she poses every day during our morning check-ins. It’s something she started soon after our father died, when we became the oldest members of our family.
I sniffle, and she immediately clocks it.
“Sister, are you crying?” she asks, her voice wrought with concern. “What’s going on?”
“I’m at the Food Saver,” I say through ragged breaths. “They’re out of pumpkin.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she says, and I can practically hear the eye roll from here. “It’s too early for this, Myra Jean. I haven’t even finished my coffee yet. Just go to another grocery store.”
“This is the second one I’ve been to today. What if I waited too long? What if I can’t make the pumpkin pie?”
“And?” she asks through a yawn. “Make something else for a change. Or, here’s a novel concept, let one of us bring a dessert instead.”
I shove the snotty tissue inside my purse and sulk down the aisle, back toward the automatic doors.
“Wehaveto have the pumpkin pie, Rose,” I say. “It was Henry’s favorite.”
“Fine.” She releases an exaggerated sigh and slurps some coffee. “How can I help? Do you want me to call around to a few other stores? See if I can get someone to hold a couple of cans?”
“You wouldn’t mind?” I ask, stepping outside into the mostly vacant parking lot. The air is extra crisp against the dampness on my cheeks as I dig out my keys.
“Oh, I mind,” she answers. “But I’ll do it anyway.”
“Thank you,” I say, “I know you don’t even like pumpkin pie.”
“No, I don’t. But Idolike you.” She snorts. “Sometimes.”
My call-waiting beeps as I near my car. It’s the fourth sedan I’ve owned in a gleaming shade of pearly white. Henry tried many times to convince me to get something different—an SUV maybe or even just another color—but I never saw a reason to change.
“Rose, Lindsey’s calling,” I say when I glance at the screen. “Can I call you right back?”
“Yeah, yeah. By the way, if I’m calling these stores for you, you’re making me breakfast for my troubles.”
“Biscuits and gravy?”
“I’ll see you at nine.”
I tap the screen to answer Lindsey’s call. “Hi, sweetie.” My voice is an octave higher than it was seconds ago as I tap the fob and slide inside the vehicle. “How’s it going? How’re you feeling?”
“I’m fine, Mom. Same as I was yesterday when you asked,” she says with a chuckle. She thinks I worry too much, but I knowthat while the cooler weather gets many women excited about pie-scented candles and seasonal latte flavors, it does something quite different to her. “Are you in your car?”
