On the top shelf of the fridge in the supermarket sits a small stubby caramel pot: cacao and dates, lactose-free.
When I stumble through the front door with fat shopping bags dangling from my arms, I say, “I bought some yogurts. I found a special lactose-free one for Sophie. Will someone put the yogurts in the fridge?”
And then I add, “I can’t go shopping anymore. It’s too difficult. I’m staying at home until the world is back to normal.”
I collapse on the sofa. A daughter places a mug of coffee in my hand. I sigh. I cry, “It’s so good to be home!”
“Did something happen at the shops, Mum?”
Something is always happening. The world changes every day.
Today’s alteration: “When I tried to walk into the supermarket, a man stopped me. He said I had to join the queue.” I describe the long overstretched line of shoppers that wound its way back through the shopping centre. “We all moved forward one step at a time.” Soldiers marching single file under a watchful eye.
Shopping is not what it used to be. I fight my way up and down the aisles, trying to remember the rules. A new etiquette of good manners has evolved:
Don’t stand close together.
Don’t cough, even if your throat feels very tickly.
No small talk.
No gathering.
No eye contact.
Don’t offer to help anyone.
Just keep moving.
Get the job done in the shortest possible time.
And then go home.
It’s hard. Too hard. I refuse to go shopping again.
Lunchtime arrives and someone says, “What shall we eat?” and I reply, “I bought some fresh rolls. And don’t forget the yogurts.”
A minute later, the fridge door opens. I hear a splat. And I call out, “What was that? What fell out of the fridge?”
It was the round stubby caramel pot: cacao and date, lactose-free.
Coming into the kitchen, I see the yogurt spread across the floor, spilling out of the pot, and I say something that I haven’t uttered for years. Old words fall from my mouth:
“What a waste!”
And then some accusatory words from the past: “Who put the yogurts in the fridge? Who stacked them so carelessly?” Who is to blame?
Anger rises to my lips: “Now Sophie doesn’t have a yogurt for lunch!”
My heart pounds. Tears spill over. I fling myself onto the sofa.
And I think about my reaction. My overreaction. Because it’s only a pot of yogurt, isn’t it? It’s no big deal. Not worth getting upset about. I can always buy another one.
Except I can’t. Unless I’m willing to face another battle. Am I brave enough to go out to the shops again?
It’s strange how a single-serve tub of yogurt can grow into something huge. Or perhaps it’s surprising how an enormous range of emotions can be packed into something so small.
When life is difficult, it’s the little things that are important. The everyday things. The ones we take for granted. A hug. A kiss. A message from a friend. Yogurt.
My love was all wrapped up in that round stubby caramel pot, that lactose-free yogurt that I battled to buy.
Photo by Sarah Gualtieri on Unsplash
