May 3, 2008...8:53 pm
Measuring cups
She didn’t have any measuring cups so I had to use my hands. I remember growing up here in between these walls of secrets and lies, this little blue house on the corner, the place where I buried my cat and my innocence in the dirt. Her cupboards were a barren country with only the scattered remnants of quaker oats veiling the surface area. Her only nourishment came from the nicotine in her cigarettes, every single one meaning to be her last. She was a habitual quitter who could never really quit, but somehow she managed to be a failure her entire life. My fingernails scratched the bottom of the bag and there was only enough mix for a couple of blueberry pancakes. I could have just poured the mix out of the bag, sure, but sometimes I just needed to feel an emptiness that I knew could be refilled. I hated blueberry pancakes and still do. They remind me of her and the part of her that’s in me. She assumed I liked Krustez blueberry pancakes because I always ate them. Because they were the only thing we had. One hundred forty nine calories, seventeen from fat. I often wondered how many calories could be knocked off if I sifted the blue flavored masses out. One hundred forty nine calories, seventeen from fat, still. I do blame her, still. Sometimes but for small things other times for everything. Often I like to think that I got nothing from her, but then I’m reminded that I too am a habitual quitter. I’ve been trying to quit her for years.
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