no matter how old i get, chicken nuggets will always be a staple in my pantry
the oven timer screamed in my ears and the steam
hit my face like a brick as i took the chicken nuggets out
onto the stove-top to cool.
my mother was standing at my side.
her forehead, a roadmap of worries because
her youngest son was being carted away to the hospital,
my dad speeding just behind the ambulance in our battered four-door.
a few moments of tense silence passed between us.
i didn’t know what to say.
“i’m sorry i couldn’t help more”
“why does he keep doing this?”
“it’s gonna be okay, mommy.”
“doesn’t he know how much this hurts us?”
i was in second grade.
most days i would come home from school,
throw my backpack onto the floor,
and help my parents rebuild whichever memory my brother
had broken that day.
we shoveled the nuggets onto flimsy paper plates,
decorating them with condiments and off-brand potato chips.
for a moment, things almost felt normal
as i asked my other brother if he wanted any ketchup.
my siblings, mother, and i sat around the table,
our plates and thoughts full of the aftermath of my brother’s storm.
the chicken burned my tongue when i realized
this day would not be an isolated incident.
it didn’t matter how old i got,
i was always going to be the one helping my parents
pick up the pieces my brother couldn’t help
but cast to the floor.
from that day forward, i hated chicken nuggets.
now, i am entering my first year of college
and i still don’t understand why my brother continues
to crack the foundations of my memories.
i know it isn’t his fault,
not really,
but i continue to color him in with
that same blame colored crayon
that i used that night we had
chicken nuggets for dinner.
i don’t remember what happened after that.
the earthquake of my brother created aftershocks
that scrambled my recollection of that night, and many others,
but i do know this:
countless chicken nuggets have found their way into my pantry
and into my roiling stomach on the stormiest days of my life.
the familiarity of the bland, breaded bird on my tongue
was able to turn on the lights of my battered brain and
remind me that i was still there.
that being said,
i don’t hate chicken nuggets anymore.
while the memories they call forward sting almost as much
as the steam of a 450 degree oven,
but i’ve learned to bask in the warmth of the sun after the storm
rather than burn in it.
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