Dad's Cereal

Yesterday, my daughter discovered a hat in one of the boxes gathering dust beneath my bed. She had requested me to "investigate" the contents of an unidentified space—a part of the home she had not yet visited—out of boredom. I would have immediately said no if it had been December, afraid that my young age would be exposed to the truth about Santa's workshop. However, the idea of buying gifts and putting them away felt far away and obscure in the heart of autumn.I had been preoccupied with other things, like talking to my uncle on the phone for an extended period of time, looking aimlessly through pricey flowers on the internet, or penning the longest paragraph anyone has ever written. I needed her to be entertained, whatever it was. So, without giving it much thought, I said yes.

I added my standard caveat, "As long as you put everything back when you're done," to which she gladly complied.

I didn't realize what she had exactly uncovered or that she hadn't put anything back until this morning. I saw a familiar hat on her head as I hurried from the bedroom into the kitchen, putting my coffee mug down on the sink and sliding earrings into one earlobe with one hand. Her father and I had left various items laying around the home, but it wasn't your typical baseball cap or beanie. Even though this was unique—made of wool felt and worn out over several decades—I could recognize it right away.

My daughter's head was far too big for the beret. It sagged over her eyes, exposing only her lips and the bridge of her nose. Her head appeared considerably smaller as her thick brown hair hung flat from the hat's open sides. She was completely oblivious that I had paused to gawk at her inconspicuous appearance as she sat there under the cover of her umbrella, chewing loudly and reading the back of a cereal box.

Perhaps I would have passed by without giving it a second thought if she had been a child who had expressed interest in donning headbands, hats, or ribbons. Perhaps I never would have recognized the old, grey bulk covering her like a princess's head crowned in a crown from a queen. However, it had been a long time since I'd seen the shabby cap, and I could only remember one other person wearing it worldwide.

She actually does seem a little ridiculous in it, despite how cute it is, and I'm about to burst out laughing as I focus on the front of the cereal box she is holding. Her gaze is moving down the back, toward me, tilting it. At that moment, she must have heard my breath catch, a little gasp, because that's when she looks at me.

I'm not sure if she finds it strange that I'm wearing a hat on my head, or if she just doesn't understand whatever expression I'm wearing. She says, "What?" in her freshly developed five-year-old-turned-teen voice.

But my thoughts are wandering. It is swimming through a variety of hazy, watered-down memories in search of something it hasn't had to retrieve in years.

I manage to say, "Where did you get that cereal box from?" through distant eyes. I am aware that I had not bought it and had forgotten about the cereal for a long time. She had seen me order from Instacart online multiple times, but she had undoubtedly not learned how to shop for herself. Why that cereal, though? I trusted her technological skills more than her machine-operating ones.

"Recall that Dad went grocery shopping this week?" She states it clearly. "The pantry held it."

The previous week's events are still reverberating in my head like subdued tumbleweeds: I was relieved when Grant offered to handle the shopping, dinners, and laundry while I took care of other things, and then I realized that he was the one who had brought the cereal inside. It seems like only yesterday when I told him the story, and I think of his good intentions.

Beneath the beret's brim, my daughter is still chewing, and I can hear the loud crunch of nut clusters that her molars have defeated. That music and that hat are what transport me back to my mother's table. The table is covered in rooster-patterned oilcloth, and in the middle are paper napkins and salt and pepper shakers shaped like roosters. My father is seated at the end of the table, a cereal box off to one side, with his bowl and book. I grunt like a weary toddler as I rub my eyes as morning light streams in through the bay window.

"Good morning, slumbering fool!" My dad gives a cheer. His smile is warm, broad, and sincere. It's my most cherished wake-up sight. In addition, "Want some breakfast?" Shaking the box toward me, my father moves his eyebrows in time with his offer.

I agree, and he leaps from his chair to get me a bowl from the upper cupboards that I can't reach. I take a seat next to my father and observe as the flakes, almonds, and oat clusters cascade into my bowl from the box like a waterfall. He instructs me to state "when" he's poured enough milk, so I do as he pours. My spoon settles against my ceramic bowl, and I hear it clink.

"Daddy?" I ask.

"Huh?" He looks up at me, his finger resting on a word in his book.

"Why is this known as 'Dad's Cereal'?" I'm getting better at reading, and this cereal box doesn't include any words that end in "dad."

My dad laughs and gives me a big smile. "Well, sweetie, that's because this cereal is my absolute fave."

My father's horrifying laugh can still be heard resonating in the distance, and for an instant I wonder if my daughter can hear her grandfather as well as I can. It doesn't seem feasible that she could be deaf to his laugh, as thunderous as it was for me as a child. Her expressionless face, however, tells me she is not, like I am now, caught between the past and present when I manage to get my attention back on her. "Why are you staring at me like that?" she asks, glancing at me quizzically.

We were running late, before the cereal and before the headgear. I would have been rushing from room to room in the house, picking up bits and pieces here and neglecting things there. I would have been pestering her to get ready to leave as soon as possible. I know it won't stop once she gets to school since I still need to make her lunch, straighten my hair, apply makeup, and a host of other things. Before my father's memorial service in two days, there is a ton of work to be done. It would be simple to advise my daughter to eat fast, to get dressed for school and take off her hat, to make the most of this moment so that another might come along and take its place.

My kid just shrugs at my intentions, saying, "Sure," and keeps looking at the box's back.

Would you mind sharing a bowl with me? I jerk in the direction of the box.My senses are stimulated when I sit down at the table with her and my bowl: the noises of the cereal and milk combining crisply, the gentle silence of the two of them enjoying a calm meal. It feels alien, fuzzy, and yet all too familiar at the same time. As the past and present meet and merge into whatever this moment is, all the ordinary movements appear to slow down.

As I raise a spoonful to my mouth, I see the person next to me has a grey beret on. And for a moment, just like that, there we are, a young child eating their favorite cereal with her father before school.