date on the milk carton

"Mom, I want Cheerios and chocolate milk," he gave me a light shove as he substituted a 'Good Morning' salutation with his breakfast order.

"Ok, babe. Give me just a minute," I whispered.

He settled back into the blankets. One good thing about having a kid that's a gamer, if he's got an iPod Touch, he's golden. And it makes those early mornings on Saturdays and Sundays - heck, any day that we don't have to get up early for school - bearable. He sleeps later than typical kids, but not late enough to suit me. He's a Night Owl, though; like me. So, there's hope for even later mornings as he gets older. 

I didn't want to break the early morning stillness. It had been another late night, in a series of late nights as far back as I can remember. My body ached with many pains: some instigated by my own aggression during yesterday's yard sale, I forgot the fact that I'm not in my 20's anymore; some a part of the ebb and flow of the periodic reminder that I'm a women; some because of the drastic change in weather, the surprising drop in temperature - reminders of my rheumatic heritage.

He generously gave me another 5 minutes to ponder these thoughts and just barely drift off again towards numbness, when...

"I'm going downstairs. I'm hungry. I want Cheerios and chocolate milk."

He started to throw off the covers and I woke up - for real this time.

(There's nothing like the threat of spilled milk - all over the kitchen floor - to wake a mother. And it's not that I'd be crying over it. It's just the fact that I would have to clean it. Not really up for all that effort today.)

I plodded downstairs after him - slowly, painfully.

He happily made his way to the table, as I made my way to the counter and sink to survey the mess left the night before and start preparations for a cereal breakfast.

I was in auto-mode. Most definitely not thinking about much more than getting a fresh pot of coffee on the brew.

Put away the dishes.
Grab a clean bowl. 
I need coffee...

Return the silverware to the drawer.
Walk to the pantry to get the cereal.
I need strong coffee...
 
Clean off the counter.
Add dirty dishes to the sink.
I think I'll add an extra spoon of sugar to my coffee...

Pour cereal into the bowl.
Grab a clean cup.
I should definitely use the dark roast...


Go to the fridge...grab the chocolate syrup.
Grab the milk.
Look at the date.

Stop dead in my tracks.

Because the date on the milk jug is our anniversary.
The date I have treasured each year since I was with you.
The date I always count down to...

But not this year.
This year, I am more alive than ever.
This year: your memory has never been fainter.

I'm going to be honest. I completely forgot about it, about you.
It only took how many years to truly forget, and not just pretend to forget?

I am back at the counter absolutely stunned.
I mix milk with chocolate syrup and pour the result into a bowl filled with Cheerios.

"Babe, I've got your breakfast ready," I say and place the bowl on the table. Then I'm back at the counter: thinking, but not thinking; feeling, but not feeling.

It's too damn early for this shit, I think.
I pour yesterday's coffee into a mug and stomp to the microwave.
It'll have to do.