Writing Prompt: Something Breaks

At 91, Uncle Charles had a summer job as a farmhand—his favorite thing was driving the tractor. A month after the fall harvest, he said he wasn't feeling well. He died of esophageal cancer a few weeks later. On his last night, I took pictures of his youngest son at his bedside, the full moon, the kitchen counter, a disconsolate Huckleberry (he knew something was up), and the sunrise. They are peripheral images—my uncle appears in none of them. And yet they document an important moment not only in our own family story but in the story of what it means to be human: the loss of a beloved and admired elder.

Aunt Ruth's House After Uncle Charles Died

Aunt Ruth’s house is full of people. For a solid week, Mr. Coffee churns out pot after pot. The cousins from California like dark roast. They give me money and send me to Shaw’s. “Just get something good,” they say.

I come back with Peet’s. They are impressed. “You have that here?” they say. “In Randolph?”

The refrigerator fills and overflows with food—soup and spaghetti sauce and cheese and cold cuts and vegetables that turn brown and get thrown out. People come through the door carrying Tupperware dishes, and I put them outside on the deck to get them out of the way, hoping the squirrels will make the storebought cupcakes and muffins and coffeecake disappear. Orlando, my Puerto Rican consin-in-law, stands at the stove, making frittatas and some kind of hash. “Not more food!” cries Aunt Ruth. “Oh, dear!” She slumps in her chair.

Every time somebody leaves the house I make them take something. Bags of recyclables, a portable potty, and a memory foam mattress leave in various cars.

“Do you want this?” I say to my sister Martha. I am holding a box of Stevia sugar substitute that a visiting relative purchased and never opened.

“No,” she says. She looks at me, reads my expression. “I mean yes. Yes, I want that. Give it to me.”

Just before everyone leaves, the coffeemaker goes on strike. I try vinegar, but no amount of coaxing will convince Mr. Coffee to return to his labors. He is done.

“Here, take this,” I say to Martha’s husband, handing him the corpse of our once faithful servant. Then I drive to Bisbee’s, which is going out of biz.

“I think we’re out,” says Ken. “Do you want a used one?” He gestures toward the back of the store, where there is a little coffee station for the employees.

“How used is it?”

“Not very. We prefer to drive to Cumby’s. It’s only a dollar a cup.”

He hands me a five-cup coffeemaker, the baby brother of Mr. Coffee. Five of its cups are more like two for most people.

“Take it,” he says. “It’s yours.”

The next morning I make two cups—one for Aunt Ruth, and one for me.

The house is quiet.

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Write a story or a poem in which something breaks.