small comforts

Whenever there was trouble in the family, there were always Saltines. My grandmother kept the crackers in a pock-marked tin that she’d bought about twenty years into her marriage. It was round, with a brown top and actual-sized pictures of crackers all around it. Aloof and imperious, the adjective, “Oven-fresh,” hovered in italics above the name of the product, promising a hollow, impossible warmth inside. The tin stayed behind the chipped veneer of the middle cabinet, ready for any disaster.

Aunts and uncles, my dad – eventually my cousins and I – would come into the kitchen in various states of distress. We’d search for the tin like it was something holy. Holding it against our chests, we’d grip the lip of the lid and pull it with a desperate force. Then we’d fumble for the freshest cracker – often ripping open a new sleeve to take the one in the middle. The act of smearing on the peanut butter, as thick as the cracker could hold, gave us the necessary courage. We would walk and talk in circles around my grandmother, unburdening ourselves, while crumbs of worry and guilt fell to the floor.           

My father was the oldest, so when my grandmother died, he tucked the tin under his arm and put it in the back of his car. The others teased him about taking it, but no one smiled when he drove off with all of the family’s secrets.