Corn cache

I walked into her office with the intention of rescheduling an appointment. I sat in rocking chair that had held thousands of brilliant and determined minds, worn smooth by the constant nervous rocking; back and forth, back and forth, as futures were being determined. The moment my back hit the support of the gleaming thin wooden slats I felt my worries start bubbling to the surface. After getting through business I started rambling about drama and life and being pulled in twenty different directions. Her eyes twinkled in response as she shook her head in agreement. She knew exactly what I was going through. I was on the verge of tears while she talked of running down gravel roads and how freeing a long drive was, especially with no destination. We were more alike than I thought. Her voice coaxed more and more of my worries out and before I knew it, my heart was spilling over. It had nothing to do with the Fellowships or prestigious scholarships she was known for, nothing really to do with the future. Just things I couldn’t handle, relationships that were becoming more and more difficult, the strength that people expected me to have, even family drama. After a few moments of leaving out way too many details for her to be able to follow she brought up a story of my grandmother I had told her the week before. She introduced the topic by saying she was changing the sheets and couldn’t get my grandmother out of her mind. And that every time she went to the freezer she would move the bag of frozen corn out of the way, hoping that maybe someone was storing frozen wads of cash in there like my grandmother did. Big hot heavy tears started rolling down my cheeks. She was upset for bringing up my dead grandmother and pushing me over the edge. I exclaimed, “she wasn’t even a good grandma” and let the tears fall. It wasn’t until later that I thought about checking the tub of corn that had made the trip from the farm in Arlington to Wichita to my freezer. Only corn, no secret cache.