I remember being nine or ten years old, on my hands and knees, crawling up the stairs to get to the kitchen, where my mom was cooking dinner.
I remember calling out for my mom, but the words lost their form and their letters fell into a heap on the staircase.
I remember my mom sitting on the kitchen floor with me, breaking graham crackers into smaller bites and putting them in my mouth, dinner burning in pans on the stove. I remember my mom’s eyes being very wide but she wasn’t crying. I remember a glass of juice. I remember it was hard to chew because I was crying but I wasn’t sure why, and then there’s a sharp edit in my memory, where I don’t have any recollection of what happened next.
As quickly as it came, the low blood sugar passed. I don’t remember what caused it. I don’t remember recovering. I don’t remember what my face looked like, or how empty my eyes must have been, or what I sounded like as I called for my mom. I don’t remember thinking about it for days afterwards. I don’t remember feeling affected by it for more than those few minutes.
I think about my mother,
cleaning up the cracker crumbs and placing the juice glass in the sink,
salvaging what was left of the dinner she was cooking,
trying to forget.