Saltines for Supper
Let me take you back a few weeks.
It was a Thursday evening. My fridge was bare—just ketchup, butter, and a half-empty carton of milk. I called my son, asking if he could stop by with a few groceries. Bread. Eggs. Nothing more.
He sighed like I’d asked for the moon.
“Ma, I’m working late. Can’t you figure it out yourself?”
Figure it out myself. At seventy-three, with arthritis in both knees, a bus route canceled years ago, and pride already worn thin.
That night, I ate two saltine crackers with hot water. Told myself it was fine. But it wasn’t.
