My mothers snack drawer

The pantry was filled from top to bottom with an array of items. From granola on the second shelf to the bottle of bleach on the floor, the pantry stashed everything that brought my family together.

We rarely ate dinner at the table. Let alone, as a family. Usually it would be me, my brother and my mom. Sitting at the island, shoving my innocent face with rice and beans, not a care in the world, or a thought of where my dad might be.

I was always petite. As a child, I would hide in the most obscure places, popping out of cabinets and closets, scaring my mother. When it came to eating, I would take small bites and shove the leftovers around the plate, hoping to create an illusion of finished food.

My mother always caught on, sometimes not letting me leave the table until I finished everything on the plate. Some nights I sat alone in the dark with cold chicken and broccoli mocking me.

I never understood my moms methods of mothering. She, too, had her vices but acted as if a halo rested on top of her outgrown bleached roots.

In the kitchen, under the microwave, there was a drawer with weathered wood from opening it too frequently.

Inside, pens and paper, stickers and receipts, junk and more junk filled to the brim. Opening the drawer created a stale waft of every collected item my younger self could not let go of.

My mom decided to clean out that drawer on a random summer day.

Leaving all the items either scattered on the counter or buried in the garbage, she filled the drawer with chocolates and tea bags.

When my dad came home and opened the drawer looking for a pencil, he was greeted with dark chocolate and green tea.

“Should’ve came home earlier,” she said.

My dad silently walked to his room and fell asleep. I never saw much of him during this time.

My mother continued to clean out the house. Reorganizing all the shelves, replacing old pictures and adding new Angeles to her display.

Eventually, she handed me a broom and dust pan, and told me to wait in the car. We drove to a storage unit, met a man who gave us a set of keys, and opened the garage to an empty, cold room.

“Don’t tell your father,” she said to me.

Time went on. The house became barren. Empty.

Sometimes I would catch my father asleep on the couch. My mother would shake her head in disbelief and carry on with her day. Her heart was hollow, I could tell. I didn’t understand why him napping was the worst thing in the world, but as I got older I realized that it’s not normal for a man to sleep the day and night away.

I spent most of my time in this house alone. My brother antogonized me so I would avoid him and his stupid friends who would only come over to play video games.

Sneaking into my parents room, bored and curious, I rummaged through their closet to see if I could find some heels to try on from my moms collection.

Trying on a stiletto too big for my tiny feet, I lost balance and knocked into a shelf. A pill bottle fell, causing a muffled rattle. Examining the orange bottle, a faded red label that I had never seen on a pill bottle before caught my eyes. Controlled Substance it read. I placed it back on the shelf, thinking nothing of it.

My mother divorced my father shortly after. He was left in an empty house. The only thing she left behind was the drawer of chocolates and tea, and her collection of Angeles on the shelf.