And Saltines

When I caught a stomach virus this summer and was bedridden from the nausea, my husband researched remedies to steady the motion sickness swirling through my veins. He made a list and told me he would leave work early and stop by the store on his way home.  

He had his list, but I called and asked if he would please buy me chicken soup. And saltines, I added by text a few minutes later. 

The last time I’d eaten a cracker was probably in my early twenties, before dieting turned into anorexia turned into treatment centers turned into something I’ve just learned to manage. I knew I wouldn’t eat the saltines, but I asked for them anyway. 

At home, my husband unbagged Pepto-Bismol and Dramamine, a Gatorade, chicken soup, peppermint gum, and a large box of saltine crackers. He admitted he had needed to go back for the crackers: I’d sent my text after he had already paid and left the store and was sitting in his truck. My husband was there for the dieting and the anorexia and the treatment center. He knows it has been years since I’ve eaten any type of cracker. But he went back for the saltines anyway.  

I simmered the soup and left the saltines unopened. Then I rested my head against my husband’s shoulder, and he let me steady there; he let me stay there. 

Mauri Pollard Johnson is an essayist, writing teacher, and amateur poet. She earned her MFA degree in Utah, where she lives with her husband. Just as much as she values writing, reading, and analyzing “highbrow” literature, she also values and enjoys watching reality dating shows, reading hockey romances, and listening to Taylor Swift.  Her work has appeared in Phoebe, The Normal School, Silk Road Review, Under the Gum Tree, Punctuate, and others.  

This essay is a Short Reads original.