Essays by Karen Anderson

My mother’s refrigerator was jam-packed—with jam and every other foodstuff that could be crammed onto its shelves. “Please find me some black olives,” she’d say, and I would dive into the chaos.

I didn’t know she was ill and I look up from the paper, feeling strangely empty and sad.

Nobody spills milk on purpose... or burns carrots.

It was the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. The line was long and my temper was short. Gratitude was not on my list.

On a regular basis, I’d find an LL Bean package on my front porch with a sweater in it for me from Sara. “It’s not Christmas or Easter or Mother’s Day. Why now?” And she would always reply, “Why not now?”

I saw a string of tiny blue stars lying in the street. I picked them up, but they were just cheap plastic, broken and filthy.

I would simply say, “Good night.” And two voices would say, “Good night.” It was enough to send me back to bed and to sleep.

As a young person, I wouldn’t think twice about such a screw-up, but as an old person, I fear I’ve lost it—whatever “it” is.

What I most want for Christmas is for someone to say: “Tell me about your mom.”

There was a time when all I needed to be happy was a box of eight Crayola crayons...