don't underestimate your fridge
/If I need to jog my memory about where I’ve been, who I’ve been with, how many kids are in the family, how many reasons I have to be proud, how cute or silly or hip or decidedly young we once were -- I have only one place to go.
I go to the 300-pound behemoth that stands front and center in the kitchen, a loyal and steadfast soldier, a mountain of strength, an ever present muscular keeper of most things that make the home festive, healthy, fun, and did I say tasty, even if it’s delivered with a whiff of arctic chill.
No, it’s not the man of the house, it’s the refrigerator. I never knew it weighed that much until I looked it up -- all the time I thought it was particularly svelte because I filled it with spinach and kale. At midnight, it must have been chewing on that frozen slice of birthday cake.
Or at least it used to, because after twenty years, it’s gone to that chunky graveyard in the sky and I miss it. Not because it was perfect -- there was mold on the doors and it was the color of spoiled almond milk -- but because its magnetic face held every face I love.
Every single face.
It was my steely bulletin board, my photo gallery without the fancy frames, my trusty companion that made me smile every time I looked its way, which -- if you’re human and you eat -- happens at least three times a day. Not counting midnight.
Yes, it made me smile. Not bad for a hunk of metal.
And yes, it died. For weeks, heaves of giant grumbles and foreboding sighs came from its corner perch -- a minor earthquake in the center of the house, shaking us to our core.
“What if it croaks in the middle of the night?” I fretted to Ray. “Should we collect your ice cream and my fat-free yogurt (an opportunity to rub in our differences) and take them to the even older relic in the basement, that monstrous, cracked, hideous thing?”
“Or at least,” I wondered, “should we give this one a hug?”
We tried to be cool, like our friend, and not make an idol out of an ice box. But we quickly realized, when it went kaput, the photo of Ray when he rode his bike across America, of me kissing a dolphin, of our big curly dog who went to his own place in the sky, of adored people and quotes and magnets like “Yay Margaritas!” that I’d so artfully arranged -- all that would be gone too.
Do we put it back together or do we start over? Is there enough time left for enough new memories?
I puzzled over this as we went shopping. Things had changed; the refrigerators looked more flimsy, less level, less likely to survive the weight of a fattening holiday feast. One expert said “you’re lucky if you get six years out of them now”-- although the new ones apparently save enough energy to send your kid to college.
We examined side-by-sides, top freezers, bottom freezers, French doors. We considered ice makers and
stainless and shelving and cheese drawers -- but I was really focused on one thing.
From my pocket, I pulled Dad’s yellow smiley face magnet that sat on his fridge when he died, and Mom’s fluffy sheep magnet that sat on hers when she died, and plunked them on each competitor to make sure they stuck rock solid. Everything else, to me, was just a heap of aluminum and plastic.
Yes, all those faces -- likely fresh from new adventures -- will eventually go back up. And thankfully, they’ll last longer than the fridge. How merciful. Who wants to be alone at midnight?