By Jessica Britvich
I stared at the bag of potato sticks in my hands as I
crossed the yard from my neighbor’s house to my own. My face stared back at me,
a distorted reflection on the blue aluminum bag that announced “POTATO STIX”
in a bubbly font too whimsical and excited for a day like today. “I can’t
eat these,” I thought to myself. These aren’t supposed to be mine.I imagine my neighbor navigating the aisles of our local grocery store just the
day before. Despite bad knees and arthritis, she managed to fill her buggy with
the essentials for a homey and humble belated Christmas dinner. Sweet potatoes,
a rotisserie chicken, a box of chocolates for dessert. Maybe that’s when then
the shiny blue wrapping and red bubble letters caught her eye.
As she reached for the bag, maybe she reminisced on the days when her son would run home from school, kicking his shoes off right at the door and sliding on the linoleum floor to the kitchen pantry where he would reach for his favorite snack. As she placed the familiar bag of potato sticks in her cart, maybe she smiled, thinking about the days when her biggest worry was snacks before dinner. Before her son had a child of his own, before her son had cancer.
As she walked to the checkout line, maybe she thought about her granddaughter. Maybe she pictured her coming through the door and smiling at the bag of potato sticks waiting for her on the dining room table. Maybe the red-and-blue bag was a snack exclusive to grandma’s house, only to be eaten on grandma’s lap as the family sat around laughing and smiling and simply being.
My neighbor may have thought of all of these things. But I know that when she pulled the blue-and-red bag of potato sticks from her pile of groceries and placed it on dining room table, she wasn’t thinking of me.
But then a family visit turned into a totaled car, a visit from the coroner and later, a visit from me. We sat and cried over the story of how her son was supposed to die of cancer but didn’t. And how her granddaughter was supposed to grow stronger from the experience, except she never had the chance. As I was about to leave, she led me to her dining room where she picked up the centerpiece, a blue-and-red bag of potato sticks. “You and your sister are my girls,” she whispered.
As she reached for the bag, maybe she reminisced on the days when her son would run home from school, kicking his shoes off right at the door and sliding on the linoleum floor to the kitchen pantry where he would reach for his favorite snack. As she placed the familiar bag of potato sticks in her cart, maybe she smiled, thinking about the days when her biggest worry was snacks before dinner. Before her son had a child of his own, before her son had cancer.
“But I know that when she
pulled the blue-and-red bag of potato sticks from her pile of groceries and
placed it on dining room table, she wasn’t thinking of me.”
As she walked to the checkout line, maybe she thought about her granddaughter. Maybe she pictured her coming through the door and smiling at the bag of potato sticks waiting for her on the dining room table. Maybe the red-and-blue bag was a snack exclusive to grandma’s house, only to be eaten on grandma’s lap as the family sat around laughing and smiling and simply being.
My neighbor may have thought of all of these things. But I know that when she pulled the blue-and-red bag of potato sticks from her pile of groceries and placed it on dining room table, she wasn’t thinking of me.
But then a family visit turned into a totaled car, a visit from the coroner and later, a visit from me. We sat and cried over the story of how her son was supposed to die of cancer but didn’t. And how her granddaughter was supposed to grow stronger from the experience, except she never had the chance. As I was about to leave, she led me to her dining room where she picked up the centerpiece, a blue-and-red bag of potato sticks. “You and your sister are my girls,” she whispered.
I entered my back door and placed the bag of potato sticks on the counter. I didn’t feel that
they were mine to eat. Because these potato sticks are not supposed to be
mine. Because her family is not supposed to be dead.
Jessica Britvich is a senior at Rutgers, double majoring in Journalism and Political Science.
