Cherry Kool Aid

That wooden spoon would get sucked down into the dark red whirlpool that was contained in our overly-used brown pitcher. My mom was always making a new pitcher of Cherry Kool Aid. The sugary dust would rise from the liquid and float into the air in the kitchen. Our mouths were always stained red.

When Thanksgiving came around almost 5 months after she passed, my brothers and dad got together and made the house spotless just like she’d want. It was hard, but we wanted to keep her Thanksgiving tradition alive.

I took a swipe off the lamp shade that rested above the kitchen sink. The once white towel turned red–dust from a pitcher of Kool Aid that was made months ago. Part of my mom still stuck to our home, hidden in a place we never thought to look.

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