White and Green Box

There's a white and green box in the refrigerator with a seal and warning on it: do not open without doctor supervision. It's a hospice box. I have no idea what's inside of it but it was given to us on my Dad's last visit to the hospital. The box has a special seal on it and has bizarrely found its way among the yoplait, eggs, and leftovers in the fridge.

"Comfort Pack" it says on the title with a list of nuclear plant level warnings on it. Not very comforting.

A potato chip maker arrived in another box today. It's an as-seen-on TV type chintzy device that's not long for this world. The black microwaveable multi-tier system makes potato chips, apple crisp, plantain chips, mango thins. I went to the store and came back with a few potatoes and sweet potatoes for sampling. The aisles of the grocery store are glistening bright and feel indestructible as I walk up and down looking for powder peanut butter, vitamins, and raw food bars. The store cashier barely breaks eye contact with the screen in front of him as I lift my bags up and take my receipt. On the way out I'm hit with some feelings of melancholy so I go to a place that always cheers me up: a bookstore.

There's a Barnes and Nobles down the street. I walk around in it for a while, notice the widening barrage of all things that are not books in the book store. But I'm grateful that at least it still exists. I buy a CD-book for the car and a notepad for writing before driving home.  I'm still thinking about that white and green box in the refrigerator.

When I get home I lay out the powder peanut butter, vitamins, sweet potatoes, and raw food bar. Potato chips are made. Shoving aside the 'Comfort Box" I look for salsa to add to the chip feast. We've all got our ways to find comfort.