CHANDRA PERSAUD
My grandmother’s favorite cereal was Kellog’s Special K. The one with strawberries. She ate it for the first time at fifty-seven. She had never eaten cereal before. The doctor said she had to change her diet or risk death. She’d survived too long in a country ravaged by poverty to die so soon in one of abundance (her long-awaited arrival in America happened only six years ago). So, she traded in roti and bread for steamed vegetables, brown rice, and Kellog’s Special K.
Both my parents worked and my grandmother had bad knees, so buying her first box of cereal became one of my responsibilities. By the age of fifteen, I already had nearly five years of practice, shopping. I’d grown efficient at the task, scribbling down a list at home, choosing a good deal even if it meant buying a different brand, and knowing which cashier would ring me up quickly.
As a child, I had a strong aversion to milk and a mother who firmly believed that cereal did not count as food. As a teen, I still did not linger in the cereal aisle but today, I had reason to. I scanned the rainbow of boxes until my eyes landed upon the unmistakable K. Given the options, I decided my grandmother would like the one with strawberries best.
Back at home, I pulled the box out and gave it to her. She fumbled open the navy-blue case where her eyeglasses rested. I heard her softly read the name and examine the back of the box. Meh neva eat dis ting. She was talking about cereal in general. It might taste good. This one has strawberries, I assured her. My grandmother chuckled, the same chuckle that followed the news of health concerns after her recent doctor’s visit, the same chuckle that escaped her lips when a call from Guyana flashed across the caller ID at an unexpected hour, the same chuckle that the women in my family used to deaden their nerves.
I opened a cupboard door and chose two identical white bowls. I took the box from my grandmother’s hand. Let’s try it. I’ll eat some with you. She remained seated at the kitchen table, her arms crossed on its surface, her back hunched. She bit down on her lower lip and in that instant, her crow’s feet disappeared and the lines on her forehead smoothened to reveal childlike innocence underneath. I pictured her the way she had once described herself as a schoolgirl, hair braided in two ponytails with pink ribbons at the end. I pictured her with classmates, laughing as she won round after round of ball and jacks. I pictured her as a fifteen-year-old girl, whose heart belonged to music and mathematics, chewing on her lower lip amidst discussions about her upcoming wedding. I tipped some extra strawberries into her bowl.
I still had to call the phone company. Our last bill was higher than my father expected, and his long hours meant that he usually missed the customer service window. Besides, in matters like these, my father preferred that I call and then explain the findings to him, but the call could wait. For now, I splashed milk over the contents of each bowl and placed one in front of my grandmother, nestling beside her with my own. She lifted the spoon up, milk dripping off the sides, and carried it to her lips. Her eyebrows sprang from their crouched position and surprise danced in her eyes. I took a bite and mirrored the same kind of delight.
My grandmother chuckled, but this time it was airy and light and contagious. I giggled. We were like kids running across grass under a creamy blue sky. It’s good, right? She nodded and chuckled again, longer and slightly louder. I laughed. We ate quietly for a good while, the silence stretching and swelling until it wrapped both of us in its tender palms. The clinking sounds of spoons against bowls and the crunch of cereal between our teeth filled the air like an ensemble.
Untitled by Edward Akintollah Hubbard
I tilted my head back and drained the remains into my mouth. My grandmother put her spoon down and did the same. When the empty bowls returned to the table, my grandmother wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “That was good. Very nice. I can eat that everyday,” she smiled so wide I could see her missing back teeth. She laughed and my laughter chased after hers. My grandmother still had dinner to prepare and I had to make that phone call, but we remained at the table long after our bowls emptied, reading the nutrition facts on the back of the box and discussing other flavour options. Milky euphoria filled the pits of our bellies, each delighting in the other’s presence, each living inside the other’s love.
