My husband looked at me with surprise as I stood before him in tears.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Your mom died two years ago today, and I used the last of the plastic wrap,” I sputtered.
He had been dozing on the couch, and I had woken him to share this information. He was aware of the first fact, not so much the second.
“Am I dreaming?” he asked, glancing around the room in confusion.
I knew it sounded like a ridiculous thing to cry about, but his mother had given me the giant box of plastic wrap I was referring to. The idea that I had used the last of it on the two-year anniversary of her death held a poignancy I hadn’t anticipated.
My mother-in-law had bought the plastic wrap years ago at a discount store near her home in Narragansett, RI. She knew I would be visiting that weekend, and she couldn’t resist picking up a box for herself, her daughter and me because it was such a good deal. The fact that it was freezer wrap made it an even better find.
To be honest, it never seemed to cling very well, so I rarely used it for wrapping food to freeze. In fact, I used it mostly for very specific tasks related to baking, which is why it had lasted so many years. And while I knew it would one day run out, I didn’t want it to because baking special recipes reminded me of my mother-in-law.
I wasn’t quite sure why this particular item held such significance, because she had given me a number of kitchen-related items over the years. Maybe it was because it symbolized the bond my mother-in-law and I had developed around cooking. We’d frequently chat about something we’d seen on a cooking show, or share a recipe we’d tried. Perhaps the box represented my connection to and acceptance by her and the women in her family.
The box made the move from Massachusetts to New York with my family nearly 15 years ago, and it was tucked in the back of a cabinet behind dishes I rarely used. I sometimes wondered what had happened to it, and was delighted when I discovered it again. I’d pull it out when I prepared dough for rolled cookies, such as at Christmastime when gingerbread needed to chill in the refrigerator for a bit. Baking holiday gingerbread was a tradition I’d started when my girls were young, and it seemed a fitting use for the plastic wrap given to me by someone for whom family was everything.
Sometimes I’d look at the box and think how ridiculous it was that I had had it for so long. But there was something about that blue box of plastic wrap; every time I used it, it reminded me of her: her blue eyes, her love of baking, her warmth, her commitment to family, her love.
This morning, I decided to use the wrap to package Rice Krispie treats I’d made for a bake sale to benefit my son’s tennis team. It was an unusual use for this wrap, but I felt compelled to do so even though I suspected there was not much of it left. I felt a bit uneasy as I looked at the dwindling roll. Maybe I should save it for one last batch of gingerbread cookies, I thought. But I considered the fact that I had made the Rice Krispie treats using her recipe, and that they would in some small way benefit my son, who was the youngest of her 16 grandchildren. I knew that she would approve of my letting go of the plastic wrap in this manner (and I could imagine the sound of her lilting laugh upon learning I still had it).
My mother-in-law died April 13, 2017 at the age of 95. She was a special woman who remained mentally sharp even as her body began to break down and up until her final days. I recall that the last time I visited her at home, a cooking show aired on television as we chatted. Food and creating it for people we loved connected us through the more than two decades I was blessed to know her. She treasured the traditions that brought her family together around a table, and appreciated that at times I helped make that happen. Through the years, she gave me love and support, sometimes in ways she may not have realized but which I hold near to me still.
As I came upon the end of the plastic wrap roll this morning, I suddenly remembered the significance of this day. I recalled that afternoon two years ago when her eight children and several of their spouses and her grandchildren gathered around her hospital bed for what would be her final hours. I considered how much she had been in my thoughts this morning, from my trip to the grocery store where I found the 10-ounce box of Rice Krispies she preferred for her version of the recipe – a rare find – to making what was one of her many signature treats. I wondered about what made me think to use the wrap, and I knew for certain that she had been with me all morning.
I have often sensed her presence in my life since her passing. Sometimes it is stronger than others. Today, the message was clear: She connects to our daily lives, her love ever-present. It is a thought to hold onto, a gift to treasure.
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