Strawberries

This was originally published on Authentic Writing Stories, an online collection of personal essays hand-selected by the moderators of a writing workshop I attended at the Omega Institute. 

I wanted strawberries. Frozen strawberries. Not the kind I buy today, individually quick frozen to maintain their perfect shapes and packaged in a convenient resealable bag. The strawberries I was longing for, whining for, were sugar-laden clumps of red, broken fruit, packed tightly into a rectangular cardboard container capped at both ends with metal that you had to pry off with a can opener.

My mother stood in her sewing room, which doubled as our laundry room, carefully transferring my dad’s undershirts and my summer tee shirts from our white Kenmore washer into the dryer. She was annoyed at me, irritated at my whiny behavior, wanted to be left alone with her work and her thoughts. I had never done this before. I was the model German child, always doing what I was told to do when I was told to do it and never acting outside of the accepted, stifled confines of our family. But somehow today was different.

The strawberries in question were always kept on hand in our freezer. They were an essential ingredient in what became my mother’s signature dessert. The strawberries were placed in the bottom of a large glass bowl, the frozen red brick remaining intact for several hours on our yellow Formica counter until finally morphing into what could have easily passed for strawberry soup. Next my mother cooked a box of Jell-O tapioca pudding mix, using slightly less milk than the side of the box recommended, resulting in a thick, sweet, gooey pudding. This steaming hot mixture was poured over the thawed strawberries but not mixed. The berries would caress the pudding in their own time, gradually seeping into the white, hot goodness, forming what looked like little red fiords. Eventually, the strawberries created a liquid cushion on which the pudding would ultimately float. This dessert was made and served every time we had company and I never saw anyone not take a second helping. And although I liked this dessert as well as anyone, I don’t know why, on this day, I was so intent on getting my mom to take out one of those frozen boxes of sweet berries just so I could have some.

Her annoyance, as always, was palpable. She ignored me, told me to stop, threatened to tell my father when he got home, but I persisted. When my whining finally turned into tears, she stopped moving the laundry and did something extraordinary. Without saying a word, she walked to the freezer and took out a box of strawberries. For me. To eat.

I realize this was probably an act of sheer exasperation or perhaps the only way to stop my emotional upheaval. But to me, in that moment, it was the most loving gesture I had ever received from my mother. It was no longer about the fruit, it was about her willingness to provide some nurturing to a little girl who felt lonely, sad, unloved.

The fact that this rare display of love was provided by food was probably the first sign of trouble I would not fully realize until I was well into my thirties. The nurturing I so desperately longed for, arriving as it did in the form of food, became inextricably linked to eating. Food began to equal nurturing. The love I could find nowhere else I could easily attain from a gooey, frosted brownie. A hug would emerge as an embrace from a log of chocolate-covered marzipan. And an “I love you?” Well, that required pizza after pizza after pizza.

I didn’t know where else to get these things. I couldn’t ask, wouldn’t ask, because even if I had, the answer would have been no. And food said yes.

Grief Grows Up

My father died 22 months ago and in that time, I have noticed that I am logging my grief much the same as new parents note how old their children are, using small developmental milestones.

I was not prepared for this birth. I was like one of those teenage girls one sees in the news who, at nine months along, claims to have no idea she is pregnant. Denial can be a wonderful form of escapism, until the truth comes forward to claim its rightful place. Giving birth to grief was the most painful experience of my life. Excruciating pain and raw emotion gripped my insides; contractions of my psyche that grew closer and closer together until the final push--the realization that this was real. My dad was never coming back. Then the screams, raw and loud and so foreign to my ears, even as I knew somehow that I was the source of these decibel-bursting sounds. 

As it reached two weeks old I was getting used to this new being in my life, but as my dad's birthday appeared before me, I began to experience post-griefshock syndrome, a sort of PTSD that occurs when a special date follows too closely to a birth. I took special care of my grief that day. I drew it close as if by holding it tightly I could will away the pain. I could not. My grief soon made room for post-partum depression. I knew it would. 

At seven months, Dadgrief had learned how to comfort itself, not with a thumb or a pacifier, but with food. As this was the age it could now feed itself, it did so with frightening frequency. This was so incredibly comforting. After every bite, the depression faded slightly as the food slid down. When the tears emerged anew, another bite would numb the feelings once more.

Twelve months came quickly and my grief learned to walk and run without help and how to greet other people. As these milestones were reached, I could more easily ask my grief to communicate with me. But all it could do was remind me of what was gone, what was missing, how this loss was a permanent fixture in my life, an unwanted chandelier illuminating nothing but pain.

At eighteen months, I gave birth again, this time to grief for my mother. The morning sickness was far worse this time, but the birth was less painful. All of the pain for this griefchild, it seemed, came before the birth as I cried heaving sobs that this grief was coming. My body was more prepared for the actual arrival of this being and though the screams may have been less intense, the raw emotion was in full control of my body. 

So now I have two beings to raise. Two distinct entities who will have to coexist in my house, in my body, and in my head. 

Momgrief will have to go through the same stages as Dadgrief but, when Momgrief is around three years old, they will be able to play together. They can run and jump and hide from me, but surely they will only play hide and seek, and I will have no alternative but to find them. They are, after all, beings that cannot exist on their own. 

At some point they will want the car keys and drive off, giving me time away from them. Eventually they will both get their own homes or apartments, returning only for birthdays and holidays. But because they are mine, born of love and nurtured by memories, they will remain mine until I die. These beings I have borne will not cease to exist until I do, because this love inside me will never die.