It All Gets to Exist
Do you ever catch yourself in the kitchen, cutting slivers off the rice krispie treats straight from the pan? You’re not eating a whole square. It’s just a taste. And another. And another…
As I write this Charlie is in Charlotte visiting family and he better hurry home if he wants any.
And sure, part of the pull back to the pan is the sugar keeps us reaching for more. But that’s not the whole story.
Rice krispie treats are one way I bring my mom into my days this time of year. How I keep her close.
Rice krispie treats were the last thing Mom ever made for me.
I’m not confident on the exact date anymore, but it was either Valentine’s Day, or very close to it, back in February of 2008.
I met her and my sister Karen at Empire Vision in Fairmount, NY to get new glasses.
We found the glasses - likely some slightly different version of tortoiseshell from the most recent pair. And before we hugged goodbye, Mom went to her car and pulled out a plate for each of us.
Rectangular rice Krispie treats with pink and red Hershey Kisses scattered across the paper plate, wrapped in plastic wrap and tied with a red ribbon.
One of thousands of sweet gestures of love and kindness Mom had given us over the years.
She passed away one month later.
And almost two decades later - I still make this treat every year. There is something about this specific tradition that is very cathartic for me.
It’s my reminder that grief doesn’t have an expiration date. That the melting pot of emotions is totally normal, no matter how much time has passed.
If you've lost someone you love - maybe you know the experience. Their memory is so present and so fleeting all at once.
There is no right way to grieve or to move forward after experiencing loss. All I can say is what works for me.
And for me, I want to feel it all.
I want to invite the memories in.
I watch the marshmallows melt and think about the time Dad helped me, Karen and Steve make a huge brick of a rice Krispie treat to surprise Mom when she got home late from the lab. I can still hear the laughter as we peered through the iron railing, waiting for her. And her fake annoyance that we were still awake at midnight.
I stir the rice Krispies in and think about the elegant woman who would take me to the barn at 4 am so I could braid Ariel’s mane before my horse show.
I smell the butter and remember the feeling of delight when she suggested we get an indoor dog after Dad moved out and our sweet border collie Bud passed away.
I pour the gooey mixture into the pan while smiling, thinking of how every time a George Strait song came on the radio, we’d turn to each other and say, “cutie patootie” while singing along.
I eat a slice and feel awful and sad and peaceful. It all exists together.
I allow myself to feel it all.
The grief that this is my 18th Valentine's Day without her. That I don't know what she'd be like as a 76-year-old.
My gut is she'd be spending every second she could with our nephews and planning trips to the Outer Banks with the rest of our family.
There's the grief that she'll never see my home, meet many of my framily members, or spend time in the mountains that help me feel whole.
There’s guilt.
That I didn’t make more time to notice the nuance in her eyes, to find excuses to drink vanilla steamers together, or to talk more about her time in Hawaii with Dad.
There's also pride. Pride because I know she'd be happy with who I've become.
Although I gave her a run for her money sometimes with my stubborn streak, my very messy bedroom, and slightly wild nature, she knew my heart then and would still appreciate it today.
It all gets to exist.
Maybe for you, it's not rice Krispie treats that bring it all to the surface. Maybe it's a song, a place, or a smell that catches you off guard. The lilacs still get me every time.
Whatever it is for you - whether it pops up out of the blue or whether you're curating a moment - it's all allowed to be.
So please excuse me while I head back to the kitchen, for just one more sliver. One more moment of connection. And another…
