APRIL MCCLOUD

UNPACKING

I hauled the two weighty grocery bags into my kitchen, setting them both on my stove—besides two pounds of frozen ground beef and a dozen eggs, I wasn’t entirely sure what was inside. I decided to begin with the cans. Green beans? Standard. Tomato paste. Check. Tomato sauce. Sure. Diced tomatoes. I sighed. There was a theme, apparently. But how many tomatoes did a person need—

I gasped. Name-brand soup? Decadent!

I paused though, looking at the ingredients.

Contains: Wheat

My eye twitched. Naturally.

I set it aside to pawn off on someone who wouldn’t get sick to their stomach.

Mixed fruit of questionable origin? Cheeeeck. USDA pulled pork? I took in the familiar silver metal, the sparse writing. It was odd that a government-labeled can didn’t require nutritional information. At least it wasn’t actually mystery meat.

And with some sliced potatoes, I was finished with the cans.

Setting the first one into my cupboard I felt as if I were back to being a kid, trying to find a can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew in the overfilled pantry. My male genetic donor had hoarded food like he was still living through the Great Depression. The cans had been dusty, with labels clinging on by a dot of glue at the most, and probably expired. The pantry had always smelled awful—metallic with a hint of rot. Something had probably gone rancid but getting rid of anything had never been an option, considering how poor we were. I remember being so innocent then, not understanding the full weight of our poverty or dysfunction.

I muttered under my breath, realizing I hadn’t been checking the expiration dates on the cans. I was consistently given things that had expired or were rotten. I needed to be more careful.

Reaching into the bag I found one pound of walnuts, eyes narrowing. One pound. Every month. Who could possibly eat all that? Squirrels, that’s who.

I tossed it aside in annoyance.

When I found two rolls of toilet paper waiting for me, I sighed in equal parts sadness and gratitude. The woman who’d packed my bags really liked me, it seemed.

I’d been naive when I’d gone to a food pantry the first time. There had been hope in my chest, like a tangible thing, when they’d asked if I’d wanted toilet paper. SNAP didn’t cover toilet paper, after all, and I’d been completely broke. When they’d given me a single roll I’d fought down the burning tears but managed to hold them in until I got home.

I folded the empty paper bag slowly.

Having to unpack from the food pantry always made me feel broke, in more ways than one.

In the next bag I pulled out a bag of dried peas, frowning. I could feel the panic swelling in my chest but I reached for my phone. It barely rang, the sounds of dogs and an energetic kindergartener instantly filling the background.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Elise?”

“April! Are you back from the food pantry, too?”

“Yeah.” I turned the bag in my hand. “So what do I do with split peas?”

“Oh my gosh, did you get the type with the weird man’s face as the logo?”

My face puckered as I checked. “Yep.”

“Me too! Let’s cook together! If you aren’t careful it can turn into a gloppy mess but I’ll help you make it tasty.”

A shiver or relief washed over me. I remembered unpacking in the beginning and ending up on my kitchen floor, crying. I’d collapse around myself under the weight of despondency, lost to the fear that I’d never be able to make things work, be able to manage on my own.

“You aren’t alone.”

I smiled. “I know.”

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APRIL MCCLOUD [SHE/HER] IS A 1% BIONIC HUMAN HAILING FROM ROCHESTER, NY. SHE’S A LIBRARIAN, EDUCATOR, AND OPINIONATED BLACK BELT WHO WORSHIPS HER CAT AND HOPES TO BE REINCARNATED AS A RED PANDA. YOU CAN FIND HER ONLINE AT WWW.APRILMCCLOUD.COM.