Corn Dogs in the Kitchen

Submitted into Contest #270 in response to: Set your story in a kitchen, either early in the day or late at night.... view prompt

12 comments

Sad Creative Nonfiction Contemporary

This story contains themes or mentions of mental health issues.

“Mom, I really don’t know what to do anymore.”

Every cell in his body vibrated wildly. His fingers felt heavy and cold. He reached up to touch his face, and it was too warm. He unclenched his jaw and gave a deep sigh, trying to let out some of the jitters bouncing around inside.

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t seem to make the right decision,” he said with exasperation. It felt good to get out, like letting steam free from a covered pot boiling too hot. She waited patiently for more, so he continued.

“Everything I try leads to failure. I'm sorry I couldn't do more, couldn't just be happy, find success and enjoy life in the ways you never got to. I’ve been taken advantage of, never taken seriously, hurt, kept in a constant state of struggle, full on survival mode for years at a time since you’ve been gone. Or something stupid will happen, like I give up on whatever endeavor I'm enduring just before the hard work pays off for someone else, or… everything I touch just gets destroyed. Do you have any idea how many businesses I worked for over the years that are useless to put on a resume because they closed shortly after I left working there? It’s bizarre. I think I lost myself, or at least the belief and confidence I once had in myself, that I'm a good person, somewhere along the way to here. I don’t know what to do now that I’ve found myself in this position. I don’t trust myself anymore. I just keep making things worse.”

He was at a simmer now. He could breathe again. 

He looked around at the humble kitchen, an old single wide trailer barely hanging on, gifted to us and hauled to our little flood zone lot because it had been infested with brown recluses so badly it was vacated by previous owners years prior. Can confirm—the recluses never left. 

A spider web caught his eye, spun in the corner, between the popcorn ceiling and the fake wood panel, just above the cross wall. The cross he made for his mom, his first stained glass piece, hung proudly there among the others. The yellow light from the warm incandescent bulb and dirty old light fixture cast an odd, off shade to everything, but he liked it that way. It felt like home.

The living room sat mostly in darkness, but he knew it was there. It was all as it should be. Old, creaky, falling apart, but technically still whole. If it ever was whole to begin with

He finally looked back at her. She was short, even sitting down. Her hair was blonde and all fluffy bangs feathered out, with a ponytail. No, wait. It was short and silvery. Curly. Her cheeks he once knew better than his own, looked drawn. Hooded lids that told him she needed more rest. Or maybe less. I worry she felt like she slept her life away. But her eyes, as always, bursting with love for me. Her miracle. 

It hurt so good to look at her face. It was hard, and he could really only focus on one detail at a time. The blue of her eyes. The closed-lipped smile because she didn’t want to show her teeth. The ones she had left. He remembered her pictures, then, the ones he'd seen of her in her younger years. A smile exactly like his own.

He looked down at his steaming corn dog, fresh from the microwave, but it turned his stomach. I once enjoyed these so much. But it was always the moments in the kitchen, in the middle of the night, sharing vulnerable truths with mom, that I really wanted. This.

“I think you’re still in there,” she encouraged. “That heart of gold still shines through, I know it,” she said with a smile, then picked up a corn dog and blew on it before taking the first bite.

The words rang hollow. This moment, these microwaved corn dogs on paper plates before them in the kitchen at midnight, it couldn’t be. This was a moment meant for another person. A simpler person. A… whole person. Not the broken mess that sat before her. 

He looked down and cracked each knuckle in his fingers, fighting back tears. He knew the truth. She waited patiently.

“My heart of gold was built on my fear of doing the wrong thing. Of hearing ‘no’ and being rejected. I don’t know who I am without my need to please others. I know you warned me not to be this way, to worry about my happiness first, and I’ve tried. But it still happened. There’s been nobody here to catch me if I do something wrong, say something wrong, if and when I become too much of a burden to the people around me. Life got really hard without you around, and I honestly think dad just wants to forget about us. He put away all your pictures, all our pictures, really. Last time we spoke was in the living room, just over there. He walked away from me and hasn’t looked back. That was… five years ago? Maybe? It’s the second time since you passed that we’ve gone five years without talking. Thirteen years without you... I’m sorry I couldn’t give you your wish. I know you wanted us to keep a good relationship, but he made me feel so small. So much of my life has, since you’ve been gone. My sister messaged me and said she had my baby chest with all my baby things and artwork I made that you kept for me, kept for the family I was supposed to have someday. I thought she wanted to make sure I got it back, since it was meant to be a family heirloom for me and I had no way to come back to get it when the water heater burst and dad wouldn't answer me so I just had to move away with no money and nowhere to go from there, so I thought he would keep that for me, at least. Of course, not. She wasn't trying to return the chest, she wanted to keep it. She just felt bad about throwing all my baby stuff away. I couldn't bear seeing it and had no place to keep it without the chest, my chest, so I let her throw it all away. I have nothing left of who I once was. But I’ve had some wonderful supporters, too. They’re just… not you. I don’t know what to expect out of anything anymore. I wish this moment could be real, that you could really be…”

She tried to speak, to interject before he spiraled, but she couldn’t. The trailer wobbled, but he willed it back. Now the trailer was older, perhaps what it’s remains look like today, much more decrepit even than before. 

Hollow. 

But he couldn’t leave yet. He’d only just now sat down with her, and it had been so long. He needed to hear something to cling to, to keep him going. A dream. 

This ratty old kitchen, he thought bitterly. Where dreams came to die. The last place his mother called home. The last place I felt at home. 

He felt it shifting, the kitchen he once despised, been embarrassed by, now a cherished, fleeting wish. Stay a little longer. But he couldn’t. One last look at her face, a soft, sad smile on her lips, just like she used to make. And it was over. 

His familiar morning alarm came into focus with a sharp crescendo, and then his eyes opened to the darkness of early morning. Time to get up and start all over again.


October 03, 2024 18:03

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12 comments

Suzanne Jennifer
13:03 Oct 09, 2024

Deep emotions, powerful, relatable. My mom's been gone for almost thirty years, taken away by cancer in her early fifties. I still want to call her when I have good news. When I do something good and want to make her proud. Your descriptions create scenes I can feel. Lovely story.

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W. H. Goodwater
14:27 Oct 09, 2024

Thank you very much for your feedback and for sharing. Loss is an intimate experience, but also inherently universal. Mine's been gone for thirteen years now, and I miss her differently than I expected to, but I feel her when I know I've made her proud. She was also taken by cancer, but just before she made it to fifty. I lost her my senior year of high school, but even now, I see her in the most surprising places and ways. My cat's fur is the color of her hair, and he knows when I need her most. He comes to me every time I sit down to talk ...

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Suzanne Jennifer
18:36 Oct 09, 2024

Thank you for your candor, and giving me a place to share. Grief is universal and your writing is a gift.

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Serina Caballero
19:21 Oct 09, 2024

Many writers become so lost in stories that blanket a lifetime, that they completely miss the opportunity to weave realistic moments of humanity into their character's tapestries. Stories notoriously bigger, grander...and less human. Books are a beautiful place to run off to escape- but sometimes we all need to sit in the kitchen with our long-gone loved ones in a bit of a fever dream. This is healing. Thank you for sharing themes that I can only imagine were inspired by very deep-rooted, personal parts of you.

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W. H. Goodwater
20:01 Oct 09, 2024

Thank you. It was healing for me to write, even if I didn't exactly find the resolution I'd hoped to find when I began writing.

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Anna Rajmon
19:13 Oct 09, 2024

The words had such a powerful pull that I was completely absorbed by the emotions unfolding. The raw honesty in the writing, the portrayal of grief, regret, and the desire for connection, truly overwhelmed me. It’s rare for a story to capture such vulnerability in a way that feels so personal and real. The magic of these words stirred something deep inside me, making this a reading experience I won’t soon forget.

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W. H. Goodwater
20:00 Oct 09, 2024

I'm touched by your comment. Thank you very much.

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Michael Balliew
18:42 Oct 05, 2024

Such a moving story, I can really feel the feelings you're portraying here. It definitely made me cry!

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W. H. Goodwater
14:23 Oct 06, 2024

I appreciate that feedback. My hope is that it will be relatable to others, especially for those who have experienced traumatic loss and never recovered the way they expected to. Kitchens are such a pivotal place for families who kept their hearts there. I'm glad it resonated with you!

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08:26 Oct 15, 2024

Our mother is like an anchor. Without it we are all over the place. Imagining/dreaming of places where we have fond memories of our mother's is truly beautiful.

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Alexis Araneta
17:17 Oct 04, 2024

The imagery here is lovely. Splendid stuff !

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W. H. Goodwater
14:24 Oct 06, 2024

Thank you!

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