Blueberries

I stand in the open fridge eating unwashed blueberries out of the container. My bubblegum-pink sweatshirt sports cat drool; my worn gray sweatpants, a mycelium network of fur. My relatively new orthotic shoes are already home to faint dirty prints of my feet.

I wonder if my mother has ever done this, minus the cats, plus a few kids. I can barely remember the kitchen from that house—rare meals at home, even rarer home-cooked. I do remember blueberries, picked fresh in the fields by the swim club in those mild Washington summers, half of the berries eaten before we made it home. I suppose those were unwashed. I suppose I stood in the fridge, not her. I was the hungry one, absent dinner while she slept.

I wonder if this is how my dad learned to crow about “letting all the penguins escape,” as if cold air could run out. Although I would never have dared do this in his house. Not with her rules. Besides, she’d never eaten a blueberry until her forties.

Can you imagine?

I wonder what it’s like: the absence of such basic joys.

I wonder if it’s all downhill from here.

I wonder if I’ll ever wear “normal” shoes again or if the nerve pain will never dissipate, or if I’ll die from the chemicals I’ve not washed off the berries, or if my husband would ever even notice the fridge hanging open, me motionless inside, save one hand and my jaw.

I wonder how long I’d have to stand here to find out.

I’m sure I’d run out of blueberries.