Forgotten Feud

I’m waiting my turn at the kitchen sink.



Forget that I’ve been here ten minutes; forget that I’m never going to finish tomorrow’s assignments; forget that I made a new years resolution not to procrastinate, not to be impatient… basically not to be me. Forget that.



Remember he’s getting older; forget that he’s becoming bossy and grouchy. Remember how patient he used to be, how he spoiled me; forget that he too denied that easy bake oven set I wanted. Remember that I used to be Gramps’s little girl; forget that I’m now his scapegoat.



Keeping quiet I shift my weight to my left leg. He’s taking his time, completing whatever today’s ritual is.



He is overly obsessive/possessive of an old coffee cup (one that has been thrown away countless times—he always rescues it) and uses it in a monotonous routine. He fills the cup, running water over its chips, sloshing the liquid in a circular motion, clockwise and then reversed, against the caffeine-stained interior before taking a small, careful sip. He then rapidly dumps the contents in the sink. He concentrates on the cup as droplets drain down; it seems as though he plans to retreat, but he usually repossesses his treasure from the counter top to repeat the procedure three or four times, depending on his mood.



Today, however, the ancient cup is nowhere to be seen; the faucet is silent and there are no stray water droplets dancing on any surface in the sunny space. Instead, as his gray curls frizz in the muggy room, he stoops over the colorless counter, methodically placing his thumb and right index finger forcefully on various spots, pursing his lips in obvious concentration. As I crane my neck, I see small, beady fire ants—not sugar ants—traveling along the edges of the sink, winding their ways out through a crack in the window above, seemingly unconcerned with the danger presented by Gramps’s massacre.



I groan in frustration; he hears me. Normally, I could hop around in an outrageous clown suit belting out Patsy Cline tunes into a bullhorn and Gramps would be unable to hear me. However, since I had no intention of letting him know I was waiting, willing to let him murder in peace, he turns slightly and peers at me.



“Are you in my way?” A ruby glow of embarrassment—something else (besides stubbornness and a smart mouth) I inherited from him—covers his face. “Just a minute and you’ll be out of my way.”



That said, he halts his murder spree and stumbles off to his room muttering to the ever present tangerine cat. “Those damn ants, Jackson, those damn ants.” Jackson meows in unison, probably voicing his desire for a small bit of supper, but his sentiments are interpreted as an agreement; the conversation is halted as “Family Feud” starts blaring from Gramps’s overworked television set.



I smile knowing that in a few moments one of the families on TV will soon be the object of Gramps’s annoyance, the ants momentarily forgotten. As I pour orange kool-aid into a glass—luckily, he has no preference over what he will drink kool-aid out of—I hear him yelling his displeasure at the winning family. He tuned it too late to actually develop a favorite, so he immediately despises the winners. I pop a bag of popcorn for him and place it next to his drink on a counter the ants have yet to find.



In my own room I retrieve my notebook and attempt to make sense of a formula. Gramps clunks into the kitchen with a yowling Jackson running along beside him. Bypassing his snack, and ignoring the cat, he returns to the sink cursing at the ants. Family Feud is over.



Two math problems—major problems—later, he detours past my open door, junk food in custody, making a beeline for the TV as the opening notes of yet another game show peal.



Now I’m waiting for peace.