It all started innocently enough.
How should I know that shopping from my mother's online grocery account would unleash the emotional hounds?
Well, let me tell you, if our lives are the sum of little moments, our little moments are the sum of our grocery carts. Because food is at the heart of so much of our memories, but even moreso, looking through someone's grocery cart is revealing about who he or she is, or was.
All I was trying to do, really, was order some groceries for Thanksgiving. As we have every year, we decided to host again at my mother's house. We all still call it that, because it is, even though, as my four year old nephew accurately reminds us, "It's Lynn's house now because Gran is dead." We all cringe a little and his mother yells at him every time for saying it, but his literal brain is not wrong, as I am the one who is living in it now and again, but it will always be our mother's house.
For everyone's well-being, I don't actually cook anything, but, with my bossy nature, I am a good foreman for the Thanksgiving operation day of and make the house presentable to welcome guests. I volunteer to make a cheese and meat plate shaped like a turkey, but everyone is scared by my lack of ability in the kitchen, and despite that I did make brownies that one time and Zatarain's rice that other time and no ER trip was needed, I decide to stick to the script, which in this case means paper goods, chips, and dip.
This, I can handle, and decide to order from my mother's grocery account. After all, it's all set up to deliver to her house.
When I log on, it's an emotional minefield. Looking at her account is a punch in the gut, probably the biggest
one yet. Bigger than what would have been her 76th birthday a few weeks
ago, bigger than today, the 4th month anniversary of her death. Maybe
because it's a glimpse into her life, and who she was as a person. I
cry the hardest I have in weeks. And then I cry some more. I am not a
pretty crier, largely because I resist it, and the emotions end up
forcing their way out of my body in waves of body shaking choking sobs.
The last order delivered just four days before she died. The contents of her cart revealing how small her world had become. How little she could eat or drink. Yogurt, Tums, cake, tea, cheerios, water, not much else, though she loved her candy to the end, keeping a large overstuffed bowl on her coffee table for herself and visitors.
But yet, how she still thought of everyone else. Cat food for my cat and the occasional stray. My sister's favorite root beer, my brothers in law's favorite drinks. Ginger ale for my other sister's always sensitive stomach. American cheese and goldfish for my nephew Jacob. Dog treats for my sisters' dogs who came to visit "Grandma." Chips and fruit for my nieces and nephew. Beer she kept on hand for my brother in law's friend who helped him do her lawn; he refused to take money, but would take a beer and sit at the kitchen table talking to her more than he worked. Sugarfree cookies for my diabetic uncles. Eggs, even though she herself was allergic, for the few days she felt well enough - "well" a stretch - as she insisted on sitting on her walker by the stove and making me eggs and cheese for breakfast, long a tradition that had mostly stopped in later years as she struggled for each breath, even the act of scrambling an egg too much of an exertion.
My mother was definitely a feed you type of mother. It gave her joy to have people in her house, to make them feel at home and welcome them. In later years, it would stress her out that she couldn't attend to people like she wanted to. She would remember what you liked and always have it on hand. I remember one year mentioning that a friend loved Cadbury cream eggs and couldn't find them. That year and every year after that, even when she couldn't leave the house and would order everything online, she would order them for him, just to ensure he wouldn't be without.
My one sister claims this will be the worst holiday season of our lives. We just have to get through this year of firsts. This new normal. She may be right, but I can hear my mom's voice in my head saying, "Well, with THAT attitude..."
To be honest, the last few years have been no picnic either. My mother nearly died last Fall, and so we were given the gift of one last holiday season together, which we were painfully aware of as it was happening. Everyone, let's make memories G*DDAMNIT. And still, we were luckier than most.
I throw everything everyone likes that she used to order into the cart - dog treats, soda, beer, candy for the now empty candy bowl, chips, I order myself some eggs. I unwrap a Waterford table cloth I had bought for her that she "saved" for a future occasion that never came, and throw it on the dining room table. I say out loud, "Mom, look how good it looks. It's beautiful."
As I place my order, the site asks, "Did you forget something?" And suggests yogurt, tea, Cheerios...
I have not forgotten anything. My cart runneth over.
