Two Forks

Here is another simple story for the Sunday series......simple, but full of complexity.

The macaroni was boiling on the stove as Amy opened the silverware drawer, reached in and pulled out two forks.

Two.

She had pulled out two forks and the weight of them in her hand was surprising and devastating and too much to hold and so she set them quickly on the counter and stepped away.

She stared back at the forks then and they seemed to return her gaze and they seemed to ask the same questions she was asking herself.

How could you forget? It's been three months. How?

Don't you know you only need one fork now? Don't you know?

She walked back to the counter then and she picked up one fork and opened the drawer and put it inside and closed the drawer and then suddenly the kitchen became filled with her loss and it seemed to push her down until she was sitting on the floor with her knees hugged into her chest and her forehead resting there and her tears dropping onto the tile.

And then she cried.

She cried and cried and cried as the macaroni boiled and boiled and boiled and she thought she could stay there forever soaked in tears and grief. Just soaked.

But then she heard the macaroni. She heard the water splashing out and hitting the stovetop and so slowly she stood. With tears still streaking her face she stood up because sometimes that's what you do. You get up off the kitchen floor because if you don't the macaroni might be ruined. Everything might be ruined if you don't get up and go on, even if your face is all wet. Even if everything is all wet.

But you don't have to do it all at once and you don't have to let go all at once either. You can slow down.

So she opened the drawer again then.

And gently she pulled out the second fork.

And she set it softly on the counter beside her own.

Two forks.