No Tears for Spilled Milk Today

Reads: 25  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic

Young boy has an accident, and gets almost traumatized for it.

During my short time with my foster family, I often did errands at 12 years old. One find early afternoon, I was entrusted to walk to a local market for a gallon of whole milk, by myself. The walk was not an issue, it was a friendly area on the west side of Buffalo, and I’ve dealt with stores many times like this when asked, even at my young age. I paid the merchant, and he gave me a very flimsy thin brown paper bag to carry my milk.

I walked 3 blocks or so, in both directions, and trudged my way up to the second floor to their large apartment. I remember getting to the very top, and coming inside, then the flimsy paper bag broke as soon as I entered, due to the moisture and condensation of the cold milk.

The gallon hit the hardwood floor, and burst like a ripe melon hit with buckshot! There was suddenly a large river of white milk, snaking its wet way across the wooden floor towards the rug like wild white water rapids!

Patricia was in the kitchen, but looked down the hallway when I entered and witnessed it all. I have never heard such a scream of female anger towards me, not in all my years since that time either. It was more a keening sound than a scream I remember, closer to the human equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. It would have scared a hungry lion away, it was that piercing.

None of it was my actual fault, I was merely doing as I was instructed, but it could have been the End of the World, as far as Patricia was concerned. I came close to a heart attack right on the very spot, just from the combination of the dropped gallon, the explosion, and the loudness and shock of her reaction.

It was more than unsettling, it was heart-stopping. Luckily I was very young, and my heart was strong, but I was still in shock, and scared out of my wits, like a cat getting a stream of water. If I had claws, I would have been stuck to the ceiling in fright if possible.

Eventually Christian, being the born diplomat he was, convinced her the fault was not mine, and she was sufficiently calmed, at least for normal discourse. Of course, I ended up going back to the store, and buying another gallon. I carried it back by hand, no bag, which I was only too happy to do, for the purposes of pure appeasement and diplomacy. As in many times, I did not do what I wanted, but what I must do, if I wished to keep living.

I think I’ve always had a bit of the diplomat inside of myself as well, maybe as an adaptive survival mechanism, not specifically good, but necessary, and often in my existence mandatory for my very continuation.

I learned many things from them. How to change diapers(of course), how to wash mass amounts of sauce stained pots, pans, and dishes, how to keep my mouth shut out of self preservation, and how to get by with minimal sleep on a couch in a well-used living room. I learned what was necessary, but also some other things, quite useful. I also learned the true hazards of spilled milk on an italian womans floor.


Submitted: February 20, 2021

© Copyright 2021 professorjpj. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments:


Facebook Comments

More Memoir Short Stories

Other Content by professorjpj