The Currency of M&M's
My mother has always enjoyed M&M’s, but over the last two years, this candy has almost become an obsession. Every time we go to the grocery store, she wants to buy a big bag, not only because she likes them so much, but also because she doesn’t remember that she might already have some at home already. Like a squirrel, she hides them around her room for safe-keeping and then forgets where they went. Some of the most surprising moments are when she emerges with a bag that seems to have appeared from nowhere.
***
Over spring break, my youngest sister stays at our parents’ house and begins a week-long routine of watching daytime television shows with our mother. When I visit a few days later, my mother greets me at the door by snatching my computer bag and purse off of my shoulder. Bags confiscated, she marches to the kitchen and drops them on the table.
Before I can remove my coat, she vents, “Do you know what McKenzie did?”
The ire in her voice startles me. She hasn’t spoken with this much emotion for months and never in conjunction with my youngest sister. Her thin lips shrink to one straight line as her hands fasten to her hips.
My eyebrows bend on impulse as I search the vicinity for the person in question.
“Well,” starts my mother, “we were watching, you know, t.v., and she went to her room, and came back with M&M’s.” She shakes her head while the thought processes. “And then she ate them.” The statement lingers in the air between us, and she gazes at me expectantly.
I reply slowly, trying to understand the incident. “She ate them?”
“YES,” she exhales. “I can’t believe it.”
The rest of the story is substituted with silence, so I imagine contraband candy and poisonous chocolate. Realizing that my mother now lacks the vocabulary to describe any of those scenarios, I reexamine what she is saying. The scene finally arranges itself in my mind, and I see the injustice eating away at my mother.
“So, she ate them?”
“Yes.”
“Did she offer you any?”
“NO.” My mother peels her hands from her waist, thrusting her palms skyward. “I can’t believe that!”
***
Over spring break, my youngest sister stays at our parents’ house and begins a week-long routine of watching daytime television shows with our mother. When I visit a few days later, my mother greets me at the door by snatching my computer bag and purse off of my shoulder. Bags confiscated, she marches to the kitchen and drops them on the table.
Before I can remove my coat, she vents, “Do you know what McKenzie did?”
The ire in her voice startles me. She hasn’t spoken with this much emotion for months and never in conjunction with my youngest sister. Her thin lips shrink to one straight line as her hands fasten to her hips.
My eyebrows bend on impulse as I search the vicinity for the person in question.
“Well,” starts my mother, “we were watching, you know, t.v., and she went to her room, and came back with M&M’s.” She shakes her head while the thought processes. “And then she ate them.” The statement lingers in the air between us, and she gazes at me expectantly.
I reply slowly, trying to understand the incident. “She ate them?”
“YES,” she exhales. “I can’t believe it.”
The rest of the story is substituted with silence, so I imagine contraband candy and poisonous chocolate. Realizing that my mother now lacks the vocabulary to describe any of those scenarios, I reexamine what she is saying. The scene finally arranges itself in my mind, and I see the injustice eating away at my mother.
“So, she ate them?”
“Yes.”
“Did she offer you any?”
“NO.” My mother peels her hands from her waist, thrusting her palms skyward. “I can’t believe that!”
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