A Ghost Made of Gelatin

It was both astonishing and delightful to see that Mr. Harper found out how to use emojis. It was a simple thumbs-up followed by a request to come over for tea. The text message, although brief, brought a radiant smile to Laurel's face when she woke up on her birthday. However, as much as she appreciated her eighty-five-year-old neighbor's newfound technological prowess, Laurel knew that she couldn't accept his invitation. There were two reasons why. Firstly, she had grown tired of being Mr. Harper's sole source of companionship, constantly fending off his loneliness and boredom. His grandchildren showered him with extravagant gifts like the brand new Toyota he never drove, the housekeeper he dismissed after a week, and the latest iPhone that left him perplexed each day. All the retired English teacher truly desired was someone to lend an empathetic ear to his embellished tales of lives transformed by a single quote from The Great Gatsby. Only Laurel would indulge him, over a cup of ginger tea and chocolate chip cookies.

The second reason Laurel declined Mr. Harper's proposition was that this day marked not only her thirty-ninth birthday, but also the anniversary of her mother's passing. Fifteen years ago, on her deathbed, her mother had confided in her, she believed that Laurel was destined to do great things. However, this prophecy came with a warning: she must never sacrifice her own happiness in pursuit of these grand achievements. Her idea of happiness was instilled into the confused teenager with these words, “You will only taste true happiness when you can sit around a tall fire with your kids roasting marshmallows and exchanging stories. Believe me Laurel, when we sat outside in front of the fire, all the pain in the world would dissipate". Those memories flooded Laurel's mind, vivid and complete, filling in the gaps of time. On cool autumn evenings, when the air held the scent of fallen leaves, Laurel would nestle against her mother's side, captivated by the crackling and popping of the fire, sending sparks waltzing into the velvety sky. The gentle breeze carried her mother's laughter and tales to unseen places, while the warm, gooey marshmallows melted on her tongue, the blend of caramelized sugar and toasted vanilla exploding with flavor. Despite being a single mother working two jobs, her mother had always made time for this cherished tradition, even on warmer days when a fire seemed superfluous.

In the early afternoon, Laurel roused herself from her silk sheets, performing a languid stretch. She had spent hours gazing at the cascading light of the crystal chandelier, lost in contemplation of her current life. Her womb had never carried a child, and her heart had never known the embrace of a spouse. She had attempted both, but her publishing company, painstakingly built from scratch, had always taken precedence over the yearning in her heart. It had taken ten years of tireless work, depleting her savings and necessitating two small loans, as well as countless weekends sacrificed behind a screen. Even when success arrived, bringing with it a mansion in the city, a lake house, and a bookshelf adorned with her own works, Laurel couldn't shake her mother's words from her thoughts. She hadn't tasted marshmallows in twenty-four years, reserving this cherished tradition for a time when her hypothetical children would be wise enough to avoid the dangers of the fire. Every year on her birthday, she felt herself drifting further from her mother's last wish.

During the interviews she reluctantly agreed to, there was always one recurring question that plagued Laurel. First, they would probe into her decision to drop out of high school, a time when grief overshadowed her intellect, forcing her to work as an exotic dancer to make ends meet. Then, to end the interviews on a positive note, the interviewer would lean closer and ask a version of "Are you happy?" Laurel's response was always fiercely affirmative. Of course, she was content with her life. She had worked tirelessly for everything she had achieved, using grief as her tool and poverty as her foundation. Her mailbox overflowed with hundreds of emails each morning, filled with messages from satisfied clients who had found new purpose as authors, or from readers who had implemented the teachings from her self-help books, finding fulfillment in their own lives. Every weekend, she had to decline invitations to social events, her schedule brimming with commitments. And during quieter moments, she would engage in discussions with Mr. Harper, delving into the melancholic verses of Sylvia Plath. Yet, as soon as she allowed herself to revel in her accomplishments, her thoughts would invariably be invaded by...marshmallows. How could she have achieved so much and yet fail at the simple act of roasting sugary gelatin with her children? Frustrated, Laurel snatched her phone and swiftly placed an order for an urgent delivery of five bags of marshmallows from the nearest grocery store. Within a mere hour, the bags were deposited on her front porch. Placing them on the sleek marble countertop of her kitchen island, Laurel opened the first bag, releasing a tantalizing aroma that filled the air. The scent of vanilla, tinged with subtle hints of caramel, wafted through the room, evoking memories that had lain dormant for twenty-four years. Desperate to intensify the sensation, she tore open the remaining bags. Yet, even with the combined smell of the marshmallows permeating the room, it fell short of what she desired. The voice of her mother echoed in her mind, laced with an unusual disdain, incessantly repeating the phrase "roasting marshmallows with your children." Laurel began shoving marshmallows into her mouth one after another, the overflow falling onto the floor. She then hurled the remaining marshmallows against the wall. Collapsing to her knees, her mouth still full, she cried out between intermittent sobs, "I'm sorry, Mommy!" Yet, there was no response to her anguished plea.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the world into shadows, Laurel rose from the floor, her phone buzzing incessantly next to her. Unlocking the device, she was greeted by a flood of emojis, their collective meaning indecipherable. All of them were from Mr. Harper. Without a second thought, Laurel grabbed her coat and made her way to her neighbor's house, where she was met with pure joy as always. 

Concern etched on his face, Mr. Harper took in the disheveled state of Laurel's hair and the tears that stained her eyes. "Is everything okay?" he asked gently.

Tears still glistening on her cheeks, Laurel replied, "I'm sorry for not responding earlier. I was caught up in something."

"It's alright," Mr. Harper reassured her. "I actually wanted to come over because your house is warmer than mine. I can't seem to figure out the heating system my son installed. It makes the house colder for some reason."

Guilt washed over Laurel as she realized why Mr. Harper kept on texting. "Oh, Mr. Harper, you should have texted me about that. I would have gladly helped you."

"I did," he replied, a hint of confusion in his voice. "I sent you those little pictures to explain it better."

Ah, so that's what the jumble of emojis meant, Laurel realized.

"Well, in the meantime, let's head to my house," she suggested, the usual glimmer returning to her eyes. "I can bake some cookies, and I have plenty of warm blankets."

However, Mr. Harper dismissed her proposal, a smile curling his lips. "Actually, I've started a fire in my backyard. Would you like to join me?"

A wave of warmth washed over Laurel at the thought. "Yes, but only if we can roast something in that fire of yours. I've been longing to roast marshmallows for twenty-four years. Do you happen to have any?"

Regret filled Mr. Harper's eyes as he shook his head apologetically. "I'm afraid I don't. However, we could roast some sausages instead, if that's alright with you."

Laurel took a moment to consider, the voices in her head slowly fading into a distant hum. Finally, she smiled and replied, "Actually, sausages would be perfect."