Dinner at Five

Dinner at Five

The shorthand slowly creeps towards 5. I don’t feel like I have enough time.

Time. There is never enough time.

I hurry to the kitchen and pull out the thawed chicken breast from the refrigerator.

If only I had prepared sooner!

There isn’t much time left before my sweet baby boy pops his head around the corner. He gets cranky when his dinner isn’t ready, and I’m not about to keep him waiting. He always lets out this little whine when I take too long. I can’t blame him, though. To avoid insanity, schedules are everything!

I search for my favorite pot, fill it with water, and the chicken. I'd better crank it up so I have enough time to cook the rice with the broth.

“Dinner will be ready soon!” I lift onto my tippy toes as if my voice will carry further through the house.

I hear him rustling around on his favorite bean bag chair. Sometimes, he lies there all day, barely moving, falling in and out of sleep.

I add the sweet potatoes to another pot. He loves mashed sweet potatoes. I smile. No wonder he likes them so much, they’re the same color as his hair. But this past year, the color started to fade.

I frown instantly, thrown back to that day at the doctor’s office. It started as a wart. Nothing significant, but over time, it changed color and size. Eventually, it began to bleed, dry out, and crust over.

At one visit, the wound was cleaned and treated accordingly, but cancer was never mentioned, until the second visit, when the wound wouldn’t heal. Bloodwork was done. Second opinions were sought.

I didn’t believe it. Everyone said the same word.

Cancer.

I felt the air shift around me. I heard voices but no words. My world crumbled as I realized there was nothing I could do. No cure.

Tears well up as I stare into the pot of rice.

There is nothing I could do other than cherish each moment with him, which includes fixing his favorite meal.

I wipe away my tears and check the rice. Nice and tender.

I have to put on a happy face for him. He knows how he feels; no need to remind him with my sulking around the house.

The aroma of his favorite foods surrounds me as I start shredding the cooled chicken into smaller than bite-sized pieces and mashing the sweet potatoes. He doesn’t have the teeth for anything else anymore. I mix everything together into a nice, smooth slop.

He lost all his teeth six months ago, as the cancer spread throughout his body. But that didn’t stop him from eating. Now everything just looks like a pile of nice-smelling vomit. The smell is the only difference between his dinner and his daily retching.

It also seems to be affecting his bones; he doesn’t run and play like he used to. He’s like an 80-year-old man, limping around, grunting through his aches and pains. His grumpy attitude completes the transformation.

He doesn’t play with his favorite toys anymore. The little yellow ball he used to chase across the yard sits forgotten in the grass somewhere. A small yellow ball that we used to play catch with sits forgotten in the yard somewhere.

Almost done. Just a few sprinkles of cheese to top another successful meal.

The clock chimes five times.

I hear him getting up from the bean bag in the other room and making his way to the kitchen. His head pops around the doorframe and smiles at me with his big, beautiful eyes.

“Yes, I know, I’m running late. And no, I won’t forget your watermelon.”

I place his food and drink out and sit down to watch him eat. But he doesn’t enter the kitchen.

Each day, I hope it won’t be the day he stops eating.

I stare, waiting. His food and water remain untouched.

The clock strikes seven. I hear the door open and close.

My daughter looks at the food and water.

“Come on, Mom.” She sighs and picks up the bowls, her eyes full with pity.

I accompany her outside to the white fenced-in flower garden that I built last year.

We walk through the wooden gate and follow the stepping stones winding between the flower beds. The fragrant sea of blooming color greets me as I settle onto the wooden bench.

Purple violets, red and yellow tulips sway, and white daisies dance as a gentle breeze whispers across my cheek.

Butterflies flutter their wings in excitement as they visit each milkweed, suckling its sweet nectar before drifting to the next flower.

Several birds frolic in the greenish copper bird bath while two birds fight over a worm nearby.

Animals and humans alike are drawn to water. There’s something soothing about its gentle cascade.

I built a small fountain from an old hollow tree trunk covered in moss. Inside, water trickles down each shelf before hitting the pebble-lined pool below.

The smell of blue-green grass tickles my nose and waters my eyes. I look up to see the trees waving, showing off their swishing leaves.

I finally face forward, no longer avoiding what’s been staring at me: a small concrete cross with a plaque at the bottom.

Sparky

RIP

My Beloved Companion

2009-2025

Tears well up, blurring his furry face embedded in the plaque.

Beside his cross, two bowls sit filled with his slop and water, placed there by my daughter.

Never to be touched again.

The mound, now blanketed in grass and flowers, is another sad and quiet reminder of how much time has passed.

Surrounded by bittersweet silence, I’m stuck between the world of grief and one of calm.

I hear the bench quietly creak as my daughter sits next to me. She takes my hand.

“I miss him,” I say, my voice breaking.

“I know,” she replies, her voice filled with understanding.

“I don’t know how I will get over him.” I search for anything to fill the void in my heart.

Tears roll down my face, and my shoulders begin to shake.

A small squirrel scurries nearby, something in its tiny hands.

It hesitates, then nudges a small yellow ball forward. It rolls over to my feet.

“Is that you, Sparky?”

Life finds curious ways to nudge us forward.