Wedding Spoon
Until then we’d used my bachelor utensils, a lightweight set inherited from a former roommate, provenance unknown.
Five years into our marriage and we hadn’t unwrapped the tableware gifted to us at the wedding.
“What is this?” I stared at the dirtied spoon in the sink. Until then we’d used my bachelor utensils, a lightweight set inherited from a former roommate, provenance unknown. The fancy gear remained in plastic, slotted into the drawer, settled semi-permanently underneath the cheapware like a lower mantle.
“We ran out,” my wife said.
I’d spent two weeks in Florida with my father after his heart surgery. My wife remained home. Upon return, my first task was to load the dishwasher, to clean the crusted pots and pans. My back ached from travel, from ten days on a pullout sofa, from filial concern.
“We were saving them.” I enjoyed the heft of the new spoon. Well-balanced for an adult hand. I could have been eating cereal with this for the last five years. “For a special occasion.”
“It’s just a spoon.” She took a sip from a can of flavored seltzer.
“I know it’s just a spoon. That’s what I said. Five years ago. I said, honey, it’s silverware, let’s open it. But you made a big deal. Called it more than a spoon. You imbued it with significance.”
“This is stainless steel, babe.”
“Whatever it’s called. The point is you imbued it. With significance.”
“It’s just a spoon.” She put her half-finished can onto the lid of the recycling bin before walking out of the kitchen.
In the few seconds before I followed her, she turned on a rerun of Friends. “That’s what I said.” I picked up the remote from the coffee table and muted the television. “You were the one.”
“I was watching.” She picked up a second remote and turned off the show entirely. When had we gotten a second remote? Why did we have two identical remote controls?
“But do you see?” I shook the remote I was holding so she shook the remote she was holding. “Why it bothers me? That you ran out of clean spoons? And instead of running the dishwasher? You opened a wedding spoon?”
She put her feet up on the table, pushing some mail out of the way. “You haven’t asked me how I’m doing.”
A de-escalation tactic, tuned to my comfort drive. But with my heart pounding, my face flushed, I couldn’t reciprocate. “Well, you haven’t asked me how my father is doing.”
She hated when I raised my voice. In this case, content outweighed volume. “How is your father doing?”
“He’s okay. Weak. But fine.” I sat next to her, suddenly exhausted. No, not suddenly. “He isn’t allowed to lift anything heavier than a jug of milk for a month.”
“See?” She patted my hand. “I told you.” Before my panicked flight, she’d reassured me everything would turn out okay, my father wouldn’t die. Now, the fact he hadn’t died proved me wrong. But, still, yes, my breathing slowed: he hadn’t died. The doctor called his recovery great, despite how frail and tiny he looked. The doctor called his health perfect. Aside from the heart.
We sat there for a moment. My wife turned the television back on but left it muted. She said, “It’s just a spoon.”
Jeff Goldberg is a fiction writer interested in stories and poems that blur lines between genre and literary. He has an MFA from The New School in NYC and a minor/certificate in Theater and Dance from Princeton University. He runs a fledgling “Arts in Offices” residency that places artists in unused corporate office space.
