by Neel Trivedi
Chip Taylor opened his eyes as a shrieking sound pierced through his ears and painfully made its way to his head. He cursed himself for setting the sound so loud as he reached over and turned the alarm off his phone. As he checked his messages, he looked at the day.
It’s Sunday, he thought. He paused for a second, lost in thought before rushing to the bathroom to get ready.
For the past six years, Chip had been making his dad, Grant’s favorite breakfast of blueberry waffles for him every Sunday. Since his parents got divorced, they didn’t get to do a lot together with Chip seeing his Dad just on the weekends.
But this “ritual” seemed to bring the biggest smile on his dad’s face all weekend long no matter what they did together before or afterward.
Forty-five minutes later, Chip sat down with an omelet and a steaming cup of coffee. Across from him were the waffles, hidden under a plate. His dad had never been one to rise early on the weekends, knowing that Chip liked to eat early and rush to church. So Chip always made them and covered them up before he headed out the door.
Moments later, Chip wiped his mouth as he swallowed the last sip of his coffee and got up to leave.
Chip’s car pulled back into the driveway nearly four hours later. He hadn’t intended to be away for that long but Reverend Simmonds’s extra-long sermon and traffic on the freeway threw a monkey wrench in all his plans for the day.
As he entered the house, Chip made his way to the kitchen. The waffles were still right where he left them with the plate on top.
Chip sighed as his eyes got watery. He sat down on the floor and sobbed uncontrollably. He beat his fists on the floor and wailed out days of grief and frustration.
He hadn’t cried seven days ago when he found Grant dead right there on the kitchen floor clutching his chest. He was too swept up in the chaos of answering questions to the swarm of paramedics and police officers.
He hadn’t even cried at Grant’s funeral. There were too many relatives and friends to look after as they all proceeded to give Chip a pep talk one after another about his responsibilities as the new “man of the house.”
It was only now that the reality had set in. Grant would never have another bite of Chip’s waffles again.
It was not as if Chip had forgotten the trauma of the past few days. The events had played in his mind over and over again ad nauseam. Rather, this was a last-ditch effort to preserve something, anything, of the past that would push the sight of Grant’s body out of Chip’s mind and make him remember his Sunday morning smiles instead.
Twenty minutes later, Chip finally got up and tasted the waffles. In spite of them being cold and hard, they tasted just like Grant described them to anyone listening. They were indeed the “best darn waffles this side of town.” Not for the taste which was all but dead. But the side of poignancy was the most efficacious side dish Chip had ever tasted.
Neel Trivedi is a freelance journalist and in the advertising business in Dallas, TX. His work has been featured in Rhythm & Bones Magazine, Drabblez Magazine, Mojave Heart Review, Paragraph Planet, Dodging The Rain, Rising From The Ashes Anthology, Chronos Anthology, Fevers of the Mind Digest and Purpose Magazine. He can be reached on Twitter @Neelt2001.