Crumbs

2003

Mom and I have a secret. A secret made of saccharine, starch, syrupy sweetness. A secret that lowers us from the weightiness of the world into a miniscule metropolis. One that pays homage to cavity-causing glucose bombs and fibrous whole grains alike. The secret involves no other than our white Cuisinart toaster.

Every few days, Mom lets me empty the crumb tray; a mundane, oft-neglected task. I pull out the contraption, wide-eyed and eager, as if I’m a miner descending upon specks of gold. My eyes scan the contents that lay within. Though for what, I’m unsure. Sprinkles from my Pop Tarts—white, red, yellow, orange—pop out, confetti-like. Then there are the brown granules from Mom’s morning toast. And a lone dollop of icing, if I’m lucky, from my brother’s weekend cinnamon buns.

What fugitives of breakfasts past will I find? The tray is a graveyard for all the particles that don’t make it. A final sendoff before they enter the realm of the landfill, spared from our salivating mouths and nutrient-hungry intestines.

Unlike the other chores Mom gives me, this doesn’t feel like busy work. It’s as if a subconscious impulse tucked away inside of her was trying to tell me something. How could I make sense of these fragments? What imparting words did they carry? Some answers aren’t ever answers, Mom teaches me, but gateways to more questions.

2013

“Shit, I’m already ten minutes late for class!” Anthony says, glancing down at his phone. “Can you just give it to me?”

He watches as I fumble through the cabinets, trying not to make noise yet failing miserably. A delicate rouge spreads across his plump cheeks. As his tousled blonde locks frame his boyish features, I can’t help but wonder if I’m staring at a porcelain figurine.   

I prematurely pop the bagels out of the toaster. They’re somewhere between soft and crispy. Warm enough to partially melt the cheese, though not enough to strip the turkey slices of their chill. I fashion sandwiches for the both of us, willing my hands to work as if an imaginary timer sits in my periphery, ticking down the seconds. My apartment hangs on to the glutenous aroma, captures the silence that lingers before the calamity of the day gives way.

“We’ll meet up after class, yeah?” I ask Anthony, allowing my eyelids to droop as I lean in for a kiss. His chapped lips meet mine. I’m momentarily whisked into the bubble of bliss that envelops every young and in love nineteen-year-old.

“Mhmm,” he says, grabbing his skateboard, which he props against the same chipped part of the wall each day. He turns back with a sheepish smile. Then, as the front door slams shut, sending a reverberation through the small space, I’m reacquainted with a searing loneliness. Like clockwork, it visits me at the same time each day. Yet I remain defensive, unwilling to acknowledge the asphyxiating grip it has over me.

Alyssa appears from the bedroom we share. It’s clear she’s been awake for some time, the sleep long having abandoned her almond-shaped eyes.

“Morning,” I say, in as chipper a voice as I can muster.

“Hey,” she says, her voice flat. Be roommates with your best friend, they said. It’ll be like an endless sleepover, they said. 

I move aside with my untouched bagel, making space for Alyssa to retrieve a bowl and spoon from the cupboard.

“You have your fem studies lecture today, right?” I ask, looking to now fill the silence I so recently savored.

“Yeah, not until two though,” she says.

“Nice,” I reply, rummaging my mind for additional points of conversation. Coming up empty, nervous tics begin to emerge. Tap, tap, tap. My fingernails drum a tune on the table, and I reach for my phone, hoping it’ll provide a useful distraction. No new notifications.

I sigh, nibble on my breakfast. My eyes dart around, looking for an anchor to occupy my attention as I take larger and larger bites. Alyssa’s lavender pajama bottoms. Stained doilies on our dining table. Twelve shot glasses lined up above the stove.

The silver toaster catches my awareness, sitting idly in its own corner. Then I remember. The crumb tray. I give the appliance a good shake, then lean against the cool countertop, tucking my fingers into the handle at the bottom. Like a child about to peek into her stocking on Christmas day, I brace myself. Then I open it. My eyes focus and refocus in the low lighting, attempting to make sense of what sits within. I’m enveloped in a cocktail of feelings, hit with an intoxication that pulls me down. Disappointed, distraught, dismayed. Save for a few stragglers here and there, the tray is empty. 

2018

Sandhya bustles through the kitchen. The fluorescent lights cast a sheen upon her caramel-streaked hair, which she’s pulled into a loose ponytail. Her wrist moves up and down, maneuvering the chef’s knife through a beefsteak tomato. The sound of the knife against the chopping board reverberates across the off-white kitchen walls. Thun, thun, thun.

To her, that beefsteak is Dad’s head, I think.

Dad, meanwhile, hasn’t budged from his semi-supine position on the leather couch in the living room. Every so often I hear a crunch, as he reaches into the bowl of salted peanuts, which sits atop his distended belly. It’s followed by a slurp. His habit of self-soothing with a glass of Johnny Walker began as an occasional indulgence. Then a weekly occurrence. Now it’s a daily routine, more predictable than his circadian rhythm.

I sit at the marble-top dining table, gazing down at my novel. The words appear foreign, as if I’m reading Khmer. Or Hebrew. After enough time seems to have passed, I turn the page, keeping up the charade of engrossment. Yet, my attention flits around the room, bouncing beyond my control like corn kernels popping in a steel pan. My reptilian brain is on high alert, expecting a surprise attack at any moment. Don’t let your guard down, it whispers, leaving a trail of icy breath across my neck.

I’m not myself here. It’s as if, by stepping through the black gates of the residence, I shed my identity and don a corset that buckles my lungs into place. Thoughtless. Speechless. Breathless.

“This is your home,” Foi, Dad’s older sister, reminds me. But my inner compass points away, navigating me to where, I’m uncertain. Though I know it’s anywhere but here.

Sandhya’s voice slices through the cloud of animosity that hangs over the space. “Dinner is ready.”

I jump to attention, shutting my book and standing to shuffle the grey chairs into place. The dining table is scattered with random acquisitions of the week: a gas station receipt, breath mints, hot sauce packets from Taco Bell. I push them to the periphery. My eyes scan the surrounding space for something to occupy myself with. As if reading my mind, Sandhya nudges a loaf of bread toward me. Tucking it under my arm, I face the dozens of drawers and compartments that inhabit in the kitchen, a product of Dad’s recent renovations. Another aspect of his new life that feels extraneous.

I look for the toaster. I expect to see it in its usual spot, next to the empty yogurt containers. But it’s not there. My head becomes heavy as I sift through the remainder of the grey cabinets. Cockroach carcasses, mold-infested marmalade, a chipped piece of fine china. And what the hell is that stain? I pinch my nose in disgust. What was once orderly has succumbed to disarray. A sudden bout of melancholy cloaks me, wetting my eyes so that all becomes a blur.

“Wh-where’s the toaster?” I ask Sandhya, diverting my gaze to the wooden floor.

“Oh,” she pauses for a second, startled, as if I’ve pulled her from a trance. “It’s in the other pantry down the hall.” Sandhya slides into her seat at the dinner table, furthest from mine.

My breath slows as I approach the hallway. Dad gives me a buzzed smile as we cross paths. He reaches to pat my head. But I shift my body away and return his affection with a scowl, unable to muster the energy to mask my enmity.

I flip the switch on the left side of the pantry. The single bulb on the ceiling flutters for a few seconds, then casts out a dim light that bathes me in its warm glow. I scan the belongings that are stacked to the ceiling, that cover every square inch of the brown floor. The scents of my childhood waft over me, and I pause. Clove, ginger, turmeric. A smile begins to form at the corner of my mouth, then recedes. I overhear Dad and Sandhya in the kitchen, their shrill voices piercing my newfound bubble of peace.   

My concentration returns to the task at hand. Perched in its own forgotten crevice is the toaster. It’s the only unfamiliar item taking residence in the cramped space, the black exterior and shiny metallic knobs uncharacteristically contemporary in this closest of spices traded during the Silk Road era.

I grab hold of the toaster, allowing its weight to press into my arms. The gates of my past burst, and I succumb to the nostalgia for a brief second. What might it hold? Where might it take me? My shoulders relax as I’m filled with curiosity, with anticipation. Using the tips of my fingers, I pull the tray open. Clusters of chaos take up every square centimeter—nay, millimeter—of the 4x6 crumb collector. There are black burn spots, caked on granules that show no sign of surrendering their precious real estate. My eyes scan for a sign of recognition, for a familiar scent to communicate that all is well. Finding none, I slam the tray back into its place. And accept that it’s another thing in this world that’s damaged beyond salvation.

2021

The midmorning sun floods through the glass doors. My neighbor’s lawnmower gives off a low hum in the distance, helping to downplay the incessant chatter within my mind. I’m in the midst of a Zoom meeting. Except instead of being urged to sit in front of our screens, we are instructed to take a short walk. And to notice. To notice something that yearns to be seen; to be explained. 

I pace the kitchen of my townhouse, running my hands along the magnets that hold baby pictures and physical therapy exercises to the refrigerator. “Lake Tahoe, Vancouver, Seattle Aquarium,” I read aloud in a whisper.

The digital clock shows 10:33. Only four more minutes. A sigh escapes my lips as I feel the pressure rising in the distance like a tidal wave.

This is a mindfulness exercise, I remind myself with a chuckle. 

Three years in this home, and its contents begin to feel familiar. Familiarity, ironically a sensation with which I’m most unfamiliar. Yet I find myself reeled in by its presence, by its promise. A promise of peace, stability, and planting strong roots.      

I hear Mom’s footsteps upstairs. Watch as she saunters down the steps, humming to herself, which I know signals she is seeking momentary refuge in one of the taped off sections of her mind. Inaccessible, indescribable, integral.

Ready to resign myself to the magnets, I happen upon the ceramic plate she’s left in the sink earlier. My eyes follow it back to the toaster. The toaster. The toaster. The toaster.

I shuffle to its abode, where it’s plugged in beside the overpriced Costco blender I thought I’d use every day, but seldom do. My neck cranes forward, peering down into the twin toasting compartments. I allow my attention to linger there, taking in the tiny pieces that lay scattered throughout, savoring the bready scent that opens a cornucopia of possibility. 

The crumb tray slides out easily, yet I have a sudden impulse to close my eyes. To allow the moment to pass, to shift my observations elsewhere. But the secret—our secret—it beckons. And its pull is too strong for me to resist. Without further hesitation, I take it in, holding my breath like a pearl diver preparing to enter the deepest part of the ocean.

A meticulous medley of brown bits. Oddly uniform in their color, their consistency, their placement. My extremities tingle. I’m wrapped in a giddiness that feels out of proportion to the situation at hand.

Returning to my seat, I will the tray to retain its composition forever. To hold it all together. But I exhale, succumbing to the fact that it spins in a state of persistent flux. Never the same, an infinite combination of odds. Some painful, others rife with pleasure.

Brina Patel writes creative nonfiction and poetry. Her works has been published or is forthcoming in LEVITATE Magazine, The Mighty, and LA Family Travel, among others. She is a Board Member of the California Writers Club – Sacramento branch and volunteers with 916 Ink, a local literacy-based nonprofit. When she isn’t writing or globetrotting, she enjoys hiking near her Northern California home, curling up with a tear-jerking memoir, and spoiling her sassy Maltese.