The cracked pie crust should have been a warning.
But I barely glance at the top crust’s fissure when I step inside my childhood home. Kissing Mom stirring gravy at the stove. Sniffing the turkey glistening with butter. Plucking a piece of browned skin when Mom isn’t looking. Rolling my eyes at the display of turkey-art from my toddler days: hand-print turkeys, toilet-paper-roll turkeys, collage turkeys.
Ignoring the split crust oozing cinnamon-fruit-nuts, thinking it’s a sweet promise.
Until.
Until a mouse runs squealing through the kitchen, followed by Marmalade, our hissing orange tabby.
Until Mom stumbles backward, hot gravy splashing her arm as she flails for stability.
Until her arm forms reddish blisters with oozy puss, and we scream at the fucking-cat and the fucking-mouse, why-the fuck-is-it-in-our-fucking-house on fucking-Thanksgiving?
Until we drive Mom to the hospital because we don’t know if we’re supposed to apply ointment, ice, or who-the-hell-knows, leaving the cat, the mouse, the turkey, and the split-open pie on Thanksgiving.
Until we wait on vinyl chairs eating bags of potato chips from a vending machine, wondering if anyone turned off the stove and if we can still eat turkey, stuffing, and pie that’s been sitting out for hours. And hoping this will make us laugh before we attempt Christmas dinner.
INSTANT NOODLES 