trained on the heaping tablespoons she dumped into the machine, waiting for the familiar outburst to happen. None came. Still, she held her breath as the smell of brewing coffee permeated the space of the small kitchen. He shuffled in, wearing his blue bathrobe splayed open at the front. They could not find the belt for it anywhere. Guided by his daughter to the table, G stared down at her hand on his right arm and swatted it away. Martha strode towards him with a big mug that had an image of Garfield printed on it. The cat was grinning as he held a cup of steaming coffee in his paws. Sometimes, he would reach for the mug as Martha approached him, but today he stared at the freezer door, not glancing up at his granddaughter at all. “Who drinks coffee in the evening? I want ice cream,” he said, sliding the mug away from him as she set it down. He looked at Garfield with disgust, his droopy lips shaking as he mumbled to himself. “Do you want some scrambled eggs? Or how about a bagel?” her mother asked as she leaned in towards G and placed her thin hand on the back of his own. Martha winced as the shouting began. “I want my damn ice cream! Now get your hands off me, woman.” He pushed the wooden chair back and stood up. Martha, who had been leaning against the counter with her cup of coffee, strode towards him as she noticed him wobble. His whole body trembled. G looked down at the mug, towards his daughter, and back towards his mug. After a few moments, during which the shaking subsided, he sat back down and cradled the mug with both hands. He sat staring at the yellowing floral wallpaper on the opposite wall, the unreachable thoughts whirring around inside of his mind. They all sat in silence with their coffees in their hands. It could have been worse. It had been worse. A mug full of hot coffee could have been thrown, skin could have been scratched, the yelling could have escalated and brought a startled neighbor to their doorstep. Out of the corner of her eye, Martha watched her grandpa’s shaking hands as he wrapped them around the mug. The hands that once pushed her on the tire swing hanging from the maple tree in the backyard. He would chuckle as she screamed through the air to him, “Higher, G! I want to fly!” The firm hands that used to take hold of Martha’s hand as he walked her to elementary school, pressing three tight squeezes into her small one at the front office, a silent reassurance given to her that served as a promise of his return at the end of the school day. The same hands she used to watch flip the pages of the Sunday paper as she ate a bowl of Fruit Loops, waiting eagerly for him to lay the paper down between them so they could read the comic section together. These hands that she once believed could hold anything now trembled — purple veins pulsing underneath the papery skin — as he brought the mug to his droopy lips.
*** Martha squinted at the wrinkled sticky note as she pushed the cart down the frozen
7 Melting | Julia Breitkreutz
