Tercets for My Parents’ Fridge

My parents’ big beige White Westinghouse stocked with foodstuffs
New and old, foreign and domestic, healthy and hedonic
From the adjustable top rack to the stay-crisp drawers and even the interior door shelving

Saran wrapped ends of cheese, partial tomatoes, onion halves                                                                           Morsels of steak and sausage sheathed in heavily wrinkled aluminum foil
Remains of the week’s meals in colorful mismatched tupperware

Mason jars of pickles, chutney, solomon gundy, Nanny’s strawberry jam
Dregs of orange juice and milk sit patiently
For someone to take a last sip

Condiments, oh the condiments
A sauce, a spread, a dip, a dressing, a marinade, a tapenade
An Imodium bottle or two

In the adjoining freezer a wall of icy flesh stares back, ominously
Ham hocks, rump roasts, chicken livers, whole fish
Items I have never purchased or cooked myself but will eat if served

My parents’ refrigerator is both
A comforting and disturbing reminder
Of what I am and what I am not

I, having lived on my own since college,
Possess a fridge quite easy to navigate
In nearly new condition

My fridge is not a sign of prosperity
Nor an arsenal of love
It is a machine used mostly for keeping Coke Zero cold

Now at 32
Standing transfixed in front of my parents’ fridge
A freon-induced anxiety causes me to wonder

When, if ever, I’ll have my own messy and beautiful
Fridge. Family.
And later: if that’s even what I want.

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