Spilled Milk

**SERIOUSNESS DISCLAIMER**

My great-grandmother died last week. Our family had celebrated her 90th birthday only a month before. I wrote this the day we learned she had passed as a kind of therapy.

I was sitting at some sort of fancy cafe when I heard the news. I don't remember why I was there. It looked vaguely European in style. Was I in Europe? I still don't know.

“bbbbeeeeennnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn,” rolled what at the time sounded like a foghorn in the distance. I paid it no mind and continued to sip whatever was in my cup. I flipped over a page of the newspaper I was reading. Instead of words and photos, the content of the publication consisted of scribble and ink-blots, but I don't remember caring. I actually found the scribble to be quite informative.

“bbeeennnnnn,” came the roar again, only this time a little less mechanical and a little more distinct. The noise had now grabbed my full attention, but I was not alarmed, only curious.

“bbeeennn...beeennn...Ben!”

I shot up in my bed. My dream was over, and I can't say I was particularly happy about that. Though my room was dark and my vision clouded with drowsy clouds, I could make out the slender figure of my brother standing an arm's reach from my left. I could make out nothing other than his dark and shadowed silhouette. “Ben, are you awake,” I heard him ask. I don't remember if I gave an answer to this question, but if I did it was probably little more than a yawning gasp of air.


“I don't know if this is a good time,” he continued, “but uh, Granny just died.”

My first words after that were either 'what' or 'woah,' but in this scenario, was there really any difference? What my brother said made no sense. We had just celebrated my great grandmother’s 90th birthday last month and she looked just as sharp and bright as ever then. I looked up at the clock on my wall. There was a full hour left until eight-thirty – my designated wake up time. At any rate, the conversation between my brother and I was apparently over. He trotted out of the dark room and headed off for school while I laid in bed, trying to force my still slumbersome brain into the kind of profound and important thoughts that shouldn't be made until at least eleven.

I debated with myself whether or not to go back to sleep. It sounds cold, but that’s sincerely what went through my mind. It was like I was fighting my way through a bad dream. I thought if I could just doze off – if I could just reclaim my seat at Cafe de Whatever – then maybe I would wake up to a new reality, a reality where my great grandmother was still alive.

No matter how much I wanted to make it happen, I knew I wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. I hopped out of bed (yes, literally hopped) and put on some shorts and a T-shirt. I was really wishing for some deep emotional pain and perhaps actual tears, but couldn’t summon up grieving’s traditional indicators. On my walk from my bed to the living room, I wore a face fit for any poker player; expressionless and steady, ready to conduct business.

Walking through the hallway, I saw my mom sitting on our green-checkered armchair through the living room doorway. Her face held the same expression as mine, but as I stepped closer I noticed her solemn gaze shift and trimmer into tear-choked grief. It felt like a knife had just been pressed into my heart – nothing hurts a man more than watching his mother cry. She tearfully walked over and embraced me in her arms.

As cliche as it may sound, she started to literally cry on my shoulder. I’m not certain, but I think this was the first time anyone had ever done that to me – or on me, I guess. I was surprised by how wet her tears felt as they fell onto my shoulder. Despite my mother's distress, the pain I felt was still only for her current emotional state and not for any loss I had suffered.

I heard my mother take a deep breath. “Thank you,” she said, with a wobbling and distraught voice. She finally released me and when back into the chair. I avoided looking at her face and continued into the kitchen where I found an uneaten piece of sausage on a plate. My family has a history of having anxious stomachs in the morning, making it hard for some of us to down food before midday. My sister is not exempt from these problems, so she often leaves her breakfast untouched. I grabbed the sausage patty without even thinking about it and started eating. It was mindless act, almost like breathing. I went to the refrigerator and grabbed the half-gallon carton of milk. I took a small purple cup from the cabinet and began to pour. That's when it hit me. My lower jaw quivered. My vision blurred. At last, tears. The kitchen became my private sanctuary.

At that moment, my whole world was in that room. Being a great grandmother, my Granny had touched not one generation – not two or three – but four generations with her presence. Everyone, even non-relatives, called her Granny. Simultaneously, she was both the awnriest old lady ever and the most pleasant person you had ever met. And now she was gone. Gone without a goodbye. Gone without even much of a warning.

My vision cleared again. I noticed my cup was overflowing. In my head, an awnry old lady was saying, “No need to cry over spilled milk!”

And that's when I realized my Granny never left me.