On November 6, 2016, my family is at Olive Garden celebrating what should be my mother's 53rd birthday, but instead she tells everyone she is turning ten. This is because she died and was brought back to life on her birthday, in 2006, so she sees these last ten years as a chance to start over. Her life has changed very much and so has mine, though in different ways. I can now cook food better than I had before, but will probably never make another breakfast in bed in fear of what it might lead to. Hospitals scare me a bit, but for my mother, I will go anywhere I'm needed. And despite Subway continuing to haunt me, I sit through countless sandwich constructions, accepting what has happened and what now is.
Though we have a week full of doctor's appointments ahead of us, my mother is the center of attention in a good way as we eat, drink, and laugh as a family. My brother talks about how his new job is going and attempts to convince me to move out with him. I assure him I am needed at the house and my mother pats me on the shoulder in thanks, making me smile at her, wishing she could only see the happiness I portray. My father jokes about me having to pay rent soon... Or at least I hope that he's joking. This has yet to be determined, but my mother assures me that everything will be fine. I update everyone on how my classes are going and assure them that graduation is just right around the corner.
The waiter comes around and hands us the dessert menu which gets passed down to me. This is mainly so I can read it to my mother, who is eager to learn what they have to offer. As I stare at the menu, it occurs to me how small dessert menus are in comparison to the main ones. Why have a separate menu for such a small selection of choices? I feel as it is because each of these choices are packed full of ingredients of all kinds. Each one represents a new possibility.
The piece of cheesecake is where things could have gone. That moment, ten years ago, could have broken our family. It could have torn us apart, into many different pieces. Each piece, alone and away from its home. It's an outcome I'm glad we avoided. The tiramisu represents the trauma this could have caused us all. Each new discovery in this process could have piled onto us in layers that would have suffocated us. But we're far from that. The cake options representing the obvious cliché, the fact that we still have my mother with us making it worth whatever we had to give up, making sure we know to be grateful. The warm apple pie, probably best describing us at this point. We're a warm, loving family, still together despite life trying to throw cold ice cream on top of us melting away to see how we respond. But no matter what happens, we won't lose our temperature or our flavor. We'll hold strong.
Each of these options are like alternate timelines. In the pictures of these desserts I can see myself in another life. Moments I've lived are exchanged with similar, but different experiences. One picture shows me never making that breakfast, just saying in bed, sleeping through the incident. This would have caused me to know less about this whole affair than I already do, an option that I'm not sure I could accept. Another picture shows me refusing to leave the house to see my mother, wanting to stay in front of the TV forever. This would have kept me more innocent for a little bit longer, but at what expense? Other pictures show me calling Subway's corporate headquarters to complain about their process. This would have led to me possibly getting some free meals or being banned for life. Do any of these pictures offer good moments? Sure. The most appetizing looking foods offer a glimpse into a life where none of this had ever happened. It shows my mother with her vision, giving me that look of recognition I've longed for ever since. But beyond that, what else has improved? What could be improved? I shake myself out of those images and return to reality, which I'm perfectly fine with.
As I stare at the delicious looking food, I think about how good of a state my family currently is in. Having eaten a full meal, we are now able to get dessert if we want to. Despite only thirty percent of people actually ordering dessert at restaurants, we browse through the menu with full intentions of getting something. After all we've been through, we think that we have come to deserve this dessert. However, the dessert isn't cake or pie. It's happiness. It's fun. It's everything my mom, my dad, or my brother wants to do together. The time we've had, the time we have left, it's all the rich, sweet, decadent moments that have yet to come that we look forward to. Though disabled, my mother has willed herself into good spirits and capability. She can do anything she wants which means we can too. Our options are no longer limited. No longer are we cautious and unable, but are now optimistic and eager. We all order whatever we want. Even though we might not be able to finish it all, we know that just means leftovers tomorrow. And tomorrow is a new day; one that has all of us together.
