Porridge

It was wet. Unformed. The oats swam apart in the milk, drowning piece by piece. They were small islands in a vast sea, bobbing up and down as they floated apart and then back together. The wooden spoon circled round and round in a repetitive, sleepy motion. Gradually, she turned the spoon faster as she mixed and folded the oats into the milk. The little islands were not so isolated now but formed clumps of land, each grain clinging to the next in a desperate defiance of loneliness. She turned the heat up.

She glanced at the calendar on the pin board over the dining table. It was 1 st March. She noticed her scrawled handwriting in the little box. Oh, she thought, I didn’t realise that was today.

She knew she wouldn’t have time to visit. They needed her in all day and she would be stuck in meetings that would drain the life out of her. She couldn’t remember if she’d gone last year or if she had forgotten and remembered too late. Just like this year, she thought. She was meant to go with her sister and take flowers but her sister hadn’t texted or called. She felt a familiar stabbing pain in her gut, wrenching her body down. Next year, she murmured to no one, I really will go next year.

Bubbles formed on the surface, building up and bursting back into the murky mixture. As the porridge simmered, she gripped the pot handle and lowered her nose. The steam rose to meet her, fogging up her glasses and the smell filled her with a faint memory.

At the stove stood her grandma, hunched over a pot and wielding a wooden spoon. She was dressed in a light blue dressing gown that draped down to her ankles. Grey coils of hair were scrunched tightly on her head, released from the rollers she had put in the night before. The kitchen was cold and the girl felt herself shiver. The kettle was whistling as the water boiled and the vapour clouded around her grandma. The radio was softly humming in the background: a melodic tune of violins before it crackled when the signal went bad. She went over to stand by her grandma, but she wasn’t tall enough to peer over the pot. The old lady smiled down at her and looked at her granddaughter as she tried to stand on her tiptoes to see what she was making, but still couldn’t see what was inside the pot.

“It’s nearly ready now,” her grandma said, turning down the heat before shuffling over to a cupboard to retrieve some bowls. “Go and lay these on the table, please, and take some spoons from the drawer.”

She did as she was told and laid the table before sitting on her chair, waiting patiently. Her grandma came from the kitchen after a moment or two and spooned the mixture into their bowls.

“Don’t eat it yet, it’s too hot. You have to blow on it first,” she said and disappeared again into the kitchen. She returned with a small jar of something dark.

“I’ll put some jam on it for you. I made this myself you know. There you go,” her grandma said, before sitting herself down opposite.

She looked down at her bowl, at the slop in front of her. She scrunched up her nose distastefully.

“What is it grandma?”

As she took a spoonful of it, some of it slid off and back down into the bowl. It splattered onto the sides and some of it went on the tablecloth. She didn’t want to look at it, let alone touch it or eat it.

“It’s porridge, darling. It’s very good for you.”

As the porridge came together and the oats absorbed the milk, she took it off the heat and prepared a bowl with some raspberry jam. She quickly tidied up after herself a bit before sitting down to the dining table to eat her breakfast. She hated eating in silence so she usually went on her phone to scroll through videos but this felt unsatisfying and pointless. Sometimes she had emails to answer and work to prepare or finish off but she couldn’t bring herself to do any of that. That could all wait until later.

She never listened to the radio much but she checked her watch and saw that the programme would be playing. The soothing voice of the radio host introduced the next piece by Vivaldi. She was sure she recognised the name. She realised she was running late for work if she was still home at the time the show was playing. She figured if she was late already, there was no point in rushing now.

She thought she left the stove on and went to check. One of the dials was turned on and the gas hissed out but there was no flame. She twisted it off before lingering a moment. She had a fleeting thought, her body shuddering. She felt the presence of something and she liked to think her grandma was stood behind her, watching her by the stove.

The porridge was getting cold. She sat down again.

The violin concerto radiated through the speakers as she slowly chewed her mouthful.