Spoonglish
Allie LaJoie
Author’s note: This piece evokes the atmosphere of Daft Punk's "Veridis Quo," so consider playing the song in the background while reading. Also, imagine the scene through a sepia lens.
When I'm happier, I think to myself, when I'm happier, I will buy nice things. I will buy the nice things so I can fill up my home with them, and everywhere I look, I will see nice things. What is the point of having nice things right now? I look at them, and they’re magically stripped of their niceness and suddenly full of desperate yearning, yearning for a nice life full of nice things in a nice home.
I have five candles that I light religiously. Candles are one of the things I will spend religiously on. I like nice smells. What I don’t like about candles is that eventually, I need to snuff them out, and that is not very nice. Snuffing them out feels almost like I am killing something, killing a dream. Because when I snuff them out, it’s all just dark, and I pad on over to my bed to sink into the mattress and stare at the darkness—in the light, it would be my ceiling, but in the darkness, I can pretend it's something else. I yearn to have a nice house and nice candles everywhere; maybe one day I can leave one on all night.
My detrimental loneliness is profound. I collect nice postcards because they represent how much I love sharing, but they also highlight my solitude because I have no one to write to. That's why the stack keeps. It's an un-nice stack of nice postcards. I want to live my life nicely, well, and with people. Most days, I speak to only my mother.
My mother and I, we have each other. Two peas in a pod, not a nice pod though, just a pod. We’re stuck in a rut, both of us deeply unhappy, and the unhappiness just bouncing off each other all the time. I wake up and make my coffee and convince myself it's nice the way she convinces herself that her Marlboro Golds are nice. I give her a hug, hoping that I can bring some niceness into her life; she prays for me, hoping she can bring some niceness into mine. We love each other and wish well for each other because our lives right now are not nice at all.
Some nights, I can't sleep, and I find that she can't either, and we will meet each other in the kitchen. It’s the same every time. She stands over the sink or looks out the window, hand on her chin, taking deep breaths and trying not to shake with pain and sadness. I come out with tear-stained cheeks, looking for a melatonin gummy so I can get through one more night of this un-nice life. Our eyes meet, and there is this unspoken bond between us, no words necessary. I am sorry, Mom, that this is your life; you deserve peace and rest. I am sorry, sweetheart, that I brought you into this world and now here you are, in the prime of your life, sad and lonely and reaching. I am sorry, Mom, that I can’t give you more. I am sorry, baby, that I can’t give you more. I love you. I love you.
Last night was different, though, just a slight bit. I saw you bought some ice cream for us, expensive ones. A little treat to enjoy. I decided to complement that and buy something for us as well. You’d told me to go out and get myself something nice, but there isn’t anything I find nice, and I’d feel awfully guilty if I only got something for myself. I'd initially set out to get you something nice, but I know if I came back empty-handed for myself and full for you, you’d get upset. I found a compromise.
We found each other in the kitchen again, and I wordlessly went over to the freezer and got the tub of ice cream out. I handed it to you and then went over to my bag. I pulled out a new set of ridiculous dessert spoons, arguably nice ones that I saw last month and thought to myself, I will buy this when I have a nice home and a nice life. They're gold with a little lime charm attached to the top. I gave one to you, still unspeaking, and I see a small twinkle in your eye. We say nothing while we eat; the only thing filling the silence being the little clinks that the charms make. We say nothing while we put everything back and head into our rooms, not even a goodnight.
Spoons are spoons are spoons are spoons, but these are not just spoons. These are ladles, a tacit vernacular of hope. And we’re making ourselves sick with it because that’s all we have to our name to keep us going. Gluttony is not a deadly sin; it is a primal act of survival.
Allie’s List of Non-Negotiable Nice Things to Fill Her Nice Home With:
· Picture frames
· A Persian rug
· Mugs with cheesy sayings
· Touristy shot glasses from every country visited
· Money plants
· Fresh flowers from the local florist
· Funny fridge magnets
· Antique wine chalices
· A record player
· Thrifted hardcover books
