{"id":137412,"date":"2019-06-19T13:00:51","date_gmt":"2019-06-19T17:00:51","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=137412"},"modified":"2019-06-19T10:09:24","modified_gmt":"2019-06-19T14:09:24","slug":"running-into-my-dead-mother-at-7-11","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/06\/19\/running-into-my-dead-mother-at-7-11\/","title":{"rendered":"Running into My Dead Mother at 7-Eleven"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t notice you at first, not even when I held the door open, but as you moved past me with a thank you, I glimpsed your cream macram\u00e9 top, the one I almost kept when I cleared out your closet. Beautiful. It stood out against the dull T-shirt and jeans, the scuff of that stranger\u2019s sneakers. You disappeared into the store. Passing the shelves of wine in front, I noticed the empty spots that always appear after a weekend. I was at the fountain drink machine, pressing my foam cup, when, suddenly, you were beside me, smiling, asking what kind of ice. Is it crushed?<\/em> I moved my cup quickly and let the pieces fall, pointed to them. Ah, no<\/em>, you said. Cubed<\/em>. But ice is ice. I understood this, standing beside you.<\/p>\n

The night of your funeral, I reasoned with every quick glass of chardonnay that as long as I didn\u2019t sleep, I was still living in a day in which I had seen you. I kept only the corner lamp on and stared at the couch where you\u2019d huddled for months under a red blanket, gripping that silver tumbler, crunching ice in your teeth. It was as if you were gnawing your way out of grief.<\/p>\n

In the store, you were older than you got to be, and nothing and everything like you, as small as your collarbone under the hospital gown. The macram\u00e9 a shroud. Beautiful. You moved in closer than you ever stood next to me, and when you said, I love chewing ice<\/em>, I saw it, the silver tumbler you held out toward the machine. I told you to go ahead, I was in no hurry, because I was standing in 7-Eleven, with my mother. When I handed the clerk a dollar, you slipped out the door. I looked after you\u2014the way I did in the front of the church\u2014longer than you\u2019d ever allow.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Jill Talbot<\/a> is the author of<\/em>\u00a0The Way We Weren\u2019t: A Memoir\u00a0and\u00a0<\/em>Loaded: Women and Addiction. Her writing has been recognized by\u00a0the Best American Essays and appeared in journals such as\u00a0<\/em>AGNI,<\/em>\u00a0Brevity,<\/em>\u00a0Colorado Review,<\/em>\u00a0DIAGRAM,<\/em>\u00a0Ecotone,<\/em>\u00a0Longreads,<\/em> The Normal School,<\/em> The Rumpus,<\/em>\u00a0and\u00a0<\/em>Slice Magazine.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I was at the fountain drink machine, pressing my foam cup, when, suddenly, you were beside me, smiling, asking what kind of ice. Is it crushed?<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":487,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4393],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-137412","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-first-person"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nRunning into My Dead Mother at 7-Eleven by Jill Talbot<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"June 19, 2019 \u2013 I was at the fountain drink machine, pressing my foam cup, when, suddenly, you were beside me, smiling, asking what kind of ice. 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