The Spite Granola Bar

Did you eat? Before you left the house, I mean — because you get in the car when you're nervous and you never eat, and then you're all pins and needles by the time you land.

Calm? I've been standing at this gate since they posted your flight, holding a granola bar like an idiot in case you stepped off that jet bridge looking gray. I'm not calm, Linda, I'm just the one who packs snacks. Mom taught me that — you don't fall apart and forget to feed people, you pick one.

Good brother, sure — good brother who's been rehearsing what to say to you since gate C14 turned into C22, and now my arm's numb from this granola bar and I still don't know how to start. Did you bring your coat? It's supposed to drop tonight and you always pack like you're landing somewhere warm.

No luggage, no coat, no jacket — in this? Okay. Okay, that's fine, that's — take my hoodie, I don't care that it swims on you, I am not walking you out to that curb in a tee shirt like we're going to the beach. God, Linda, when you said you were nervous I didn't picture you sprinting out the door barefoot practically. Sit — sit down a second, before we even do the coat thing, did they feed you on the plane, because those pretzel packets don't count as a meal and I will finish this granola bar myself out of spite if you say pretzels.

Since November, since we had that freak cold snap and Dad's heat went out for two days — you'd have known that if you called more than twice a year, San Francisco girl. Here, zip that up, all the way, don't do the thing where you leave the top open to look cute. I'm serious. Five years out there and you forgot we have actual seasons — five years, Linda, that's the part I keep circling back to standing here, that's most of what I rehearsed.

Dad's speeches, Dad's heat, Dad's whatever — that's not what you should be nervous about, Linda, and you know it, because you keep saying "dad" like it's easier to say than the other thing. Here, sit, zip that the rest of the way — I'm not doing this out here where you're shivering and I can't think straight. Mom's the one who wanted you home. That's why I've had this granola bar in a death grip since gate C14. She wanted all of us here before — before things get harder with her. That's what I've been rehearsing, not a speech about phone calls.

A briefcase. You flew across the country, no coat, no bag, forgot to eat, and the one thing you did remember was a briefcase with a million dollars in it. Linda — is anyone chasing that briefcase? Because if someone's chasing that briefcase I need to know before we walk out to short-term parking, not after.

Off the bar stools, sure — but the briefcase doesn't ride on your lap like a purse, it goes in the trunk, under the blanket I keep back there for Dad's dog, and you don't open it again till we're behind a locked door. And put your seatbelt on before you even think about what you're gonna say to him, because I am not walking into that house with you shivering, unfed, and rehearsing a speech about Google at the same time — one thing at a time, Linda. Coat's zipped, that's step one. Step two, we find you an actual meal that isn't pretzels or my spite granola bar. Step three is Dad. In that order.