French Fries for Breakfast

Her hair tastes like sour milk. Well, truthfully I never have tasted her hair but just by looking at it, I can imagine inhaling its frothy filth. It is usually put up in a bun but today I watch her take it down. Her grey hair pours down onto her shoulders and I smell its rottenness. I’ve never actually touched her hair but I know I’ll never forget how crinkled it feels, just like the French fries she makes me every Sunday morning. After church, my whole family piles up in the car and we drive to her house. Breakfast will always be waiting for us. The rest of my family always wants eggs and bacon for breakfast but I am picky. No matter what is being served, I always want French fries.

***

Her hair. It’s gone.

All of her hair, her sweet, glorious and disastrous hair has vanished from her head.

When she greets us on Sunday morning, she’s wearing a hat. There are French fries smothered in ketchup sitting on the stove. I walk up to the counter, pick one up and place it into my mouth. I can feel the love poured into my Grandma’s dish. The fry’s hot chili spice trickles down my throat as I chew through its firm, tender skin to discover its warm, soft insides. Nothing unusual, except for the fact that Grammy’s hair is gone. Maybe she got sick from the fumes that radiated from her hair. Maybe she wanted to shave her head. Maybe she thinks because I am a mere seven-years-old, I won’t notice.

But I notice.

***

One Sunday morning, instead of driving to Grammy’s house, we take a trip to the hospital. My mom leads me to a room where Grammy is lying in a bed. Her eyes glimmer and as soon as she sees me she says, “Hi, Katherine. I’m so glad to see you. Here, I managed to get you French fries.” I look at the tray she is holding in her hands and nod slightly.

I am happy to see Grammy but I am confused.

“What’s wrong with Grammy?” I grip my mom’s hand while we are walking out to the car.

“She’s sick. She is very sick,” my mom sniffles, holding back her tears.

I’ve had a feeling.

“Oh…. Well, at least I got my French fries," I say, not knowing how to react.

***

“When are you going home, Grammy?”

“I don’t know. I may not go home at all.”

“Why not?”

“You know I’m sick, dear.”

“I know. But don’t you want to be home?”

“Yes, of course I do. But I don’t have much time left.”

“Why not?”

“My body cannot heal itself anymore. I’ve been sick for too long.”

“I don’t want you to leave. If you’re gone, who will make me French fries?"

“Oh, don’t worry about that. Anyone can do that for you if you ask them, like your mom.”

“But it’s not the same.”

***

My legs quiver as I hold my sister’s hand in the waiting room. Suddenly my mom approaches us and says, “Okay, it’s time, girls.” I walk in, look at my grandmother’s swollen eyelids and want to puke. She smiles at as she always does and grabs my hand.

“I love you,” she huffs.

“I love you, too.”

“What’s wrong, dear?”

“I’m scared.”

“I’m a little scared, too. But God’s by our side. We’ll be okay.”

“We will?”

“I promise you, we will. Remember to treat your parents well and always be kind to others. Now, go on out into the hallway, I have a surprise waiting there for you.”

“Okay, goodbye, Grammy.”

“I love you.”

***

Out there in the hallway is a nurse holding a plate of French fries. I look at her and breathe in the crinkle cut scent of expired milk. My hands are greasy as I go to take the plate from her. I look at the fries, take one in my hand and immediately pop it into my mouth. It obviously hasn’t been made with love — it is too mushy, unsalted and while I chew on it, I feel like I am swallowing cheap and undercooked mashed potatoes.

Nothing will ever compare to Grammy’s recipe, and although that may never feel okay, right now, I swear, it is okay.

I’ll always just remember that no matter what food is being served, I am picky.

I’ll always want French fries.