The week my mom went to three funerals, we ate mini wheats (original) for every meal. I was 12 and feeling the heavy air of questions I couldn’t ask while a Costco sized box ceremoniously went in and out of the cupboard, performatively stored away like this was our last time.
I’m now 28.
I’m sitting on that same kitchen floor cross legged with a bowl of mini wheats nestled in the nook of my knees.
I’ve tried hiding from the grief. I’ve tried calculating the logic out of it. I’ve tried refusing to participate. I’ve tried to hand it back.
My head is tilted back, a soft sad acceptance that this is how it is now.
Some weeks, I’ll indulge in fig jams, goat cheese, homemade bread, a good cappuccino.
But there will always be weeks of mini wheats (original).
Wax Poetic by Julia Johnson 