I put chicken breasts next to the eggs to thaw, and wonder if these eggs were born from the birds whose bodies will become my dinner. I pull out oil from olives that will never become trees and baby bean sprouts who won’t know pods of their own.
I make double in case Trevor decides to come down for dinner. I know it’ll matter on how many pills he took, how much he slept today, and if he’s even here. He vanishes for days without a word. I “run the circuit”, as I call it. Driving from flop house to flop house, scanning over the buffet of now familiar faces until I find his.
Each time a little more of him is gone, consumed by something no home cooked meal sate.
Gnaw marks appeared, like the ones on his old teething ring, when the doctor gave him Tramadol after hurting his shoulder during the Homecoming game. Imprints of teeth spread over his arms when they moved him to Norco after X-Rays showed a labrum tear. Now I’m losing him, one mouthful at a time, as broken needle teeth pile up next to the burnt spoon on his dresser.
I try to make him unappetizing; seasoning him with love, basting him with therapy, dredging him in rehab. But he was too tasty from the start.
The day will come when I’ll run the circuit for the last time. I’ll find him like leftovers, cold and flavorless. In those dark hours after the “I’m sorrys” and the “If there’s anything I can dos”, after the hushed whispers of “He should have been a better dad”, it’ll lick its lips and come for me.
I’ll make the perfect dessert.
