Rocks by Corbett Dun
I can’t recall how old I was, honestly all I can do is guess and base it off the time I knew him, my grandfather. I was probably nine or ten at the time. Every weekend me and him would go garage sale-ing, but on this particular weekend we woke up before the sun rose high into the sky. The morning twilight was especially pretty, I remember the hues of red and orange as I waited on the porch. This was when I lived in Illinois; it was March so some snow was still clinging to the ground and the air was crisp. I was so excited to go I remember kicking my feet as I say on our stoop. My grandfather's old beaten truck pulled in front of our sidewalk.
“Ya’ ready kid?” He said with a smile as he manually rolled down his window and stuck out his head. I hopped in and we left to explore the neighborhood looking for garage sales.
It wasn't long before the morning turned to day, and we stumbled upon our first sale of the morning. The day before my dad had given me a few dollars to spend, and I was young, so I was more than excited to spend what I could. The garage sale itself I can't really remember. There was nothing really remarkable about it, and I doubt my grandfather got anything himself. But on the way back to his truck I noticed a small table at the side of the garage sale. There was a kid about my age sitting at a small table. In front of him he had many small shiny rocks. They were clearly found on the ground, probably around his house, but I was still drawn in. By that time my grandfather was in the truck, but I was at the table talking to the kid; I guess he was the homeowner's son, and he was selling each pebble for a dollar a piece. I was young and the rocks were pretty. It felt like little souls on the table. The rocks were not a hard sell on me; I was still on the fence, but he talked me into it. I spent all of my money, all of my whopping 6 dollars for a fist full of rocks. When I got in the car I was excited to show him. But when I did, he looked at me with that look that every child is familiar with. A look that screams “ now why would you do that.”
And then he said “Boy, you're going to get your money back.
“And I said “Why? I really like these.”
And he spoke “Because that kid probably found those in his yard. Don't let people take you for a ride like that; don't let people walk all over you Corbett. Now, walk on back there and get your money back.”
And that's just what I did. I defeatedly marched back to the table the kid was at. I got my money back.
This happened about a year later. My grandfather had been hospitalized for some kind of lung condition I can't recall. It was a surprise, but at the same time it wasn't. He was getting older, and he'd been a smoker since forever, but he also seemed fine. He worked his construction job with no issue. It didn't seem like he should be sick. Me and my dad waited in a short line of family to visit him in his hospital room. I was not nervous. I pretended to be, but internally I was indifferent.
“Hey bud!” greeted me as I walked in after my dad.
“Hey Grandpa Larry” I said in reply.
The room was stale and dead, very dead in my memory. Like every other hospital it smelled sterile; it made my stomach uneasy. There was no seating right next to his bed, so I sat on the bench that was almost on the other side of the room. My dad pulled a chair by the bench to sit next to my grandpa. My dad started talking to my grandfather. I don't remember the conversation since I wasn't listening. All I do remember is them laughing, chatting, and overall just enjoying each other's company. But that held no material to me, I almost immediately upon sitting down pulled my father's phone from my pocket and started watching YouTube. When I say I was indifferent I mean in no way by malice, by hate, or by any negative driving emotions. The reason I was indifferent was for the simple fact that I thought he would never die. It's childish, but didn't everyone think like that at one point? I thought he would always bounce back, I thought that this hospital visit wouldn't be his last, I thought he would have so much time left. I sat on the bench watching YouTube mindlessly as my father and grandfather had their unknowing final goodbyes. I tuned it out. The only thing I remember saying to him other than my final “bye Grandpa Larry” was confirming that me and he would go garage sale-ing in two weeks. He said we would… but we didn't.
On a random weekend morning my dad received a phone call. The call was unexpected; he left his hospital room in the middle of treatment and drove home. When he got home he made himself a glass of chocolate milk; walking to his recliner he collapsed on the floor coughing up blood. He was dead in minutes. I now I stand in a long line of people, just a few months older. I'm in the cheapest suit we could find at Salvation Army and again that sterile smell hits my nose. It's still very cold outside, but somehow even colder inside. This place looks drab and cheap, like the display room a furniture store would set up. The line is slow, inching at a snail’s pace. Despite it being a funeral it's not quiet. People talk and chatter, people laugh, and some do cry, but it's drowned out by the rest of the noise. The line is shorter now, and shorter, and shorter until there's one person left in front of me, just one. It was my step-grandmother, whose name I've happily forgotten. She's weeping; she's as hysterical as any spouse would be at their partner's funeral. I knew since before I walked up there that it was open casket, but now the reality of it hits me. She's leaned over his body crying and touching him. My knees get weak, and I don't know why; his death still hasn't hit me. The gravity of his death wouldn't hit me for years later. This was the first real disaster to come of my life, and I didn't know how to feel. So since that phone call I pushed those emotions as far down as I could. But even if my grief had yet to spark, my lip still trembled. She's now getting off of him, her last words spoken, and she moves to stand to the side of the coffin. Now I'm standing over him. He was so tall this was the first time I had ever stood over him like this. He was a corpse now, and in my mind that's all he’ll ever be. He was pale and gaunt. Even if I didn't know he was dead, I would know he didn't have a soul. I couldn't bear to look anymore. I tried to turn to leave but my hand was grabbed by my step grandmother.
“It's okay Corbett you can stay longer, you can touch him,” she said teary as she moved my hand above the casket.
“No I'm alright,” is all I could get out.
“It's okay, you can do it” she said as she placed my hand atop his.
It was cold, ice cold to the touch like packaged meat. I think it was my imagination, but his hand felt like leather. I couldn't move. I was stuck staring at him and touching him and feeling his dead flesh. I couldn't help but pull my hand away. I didn't know what to feel or think. I moved past her quickly and walked away from the casket. This was it, the last memory I would ever have of him, a cold dead body.
Broccoli by Olivia Alexander
Broccoli has always felt like a betrayal in vegetable form. spongey, fibrous, like chewing on a miniature tree. Makes my jaw tense before the first bite. It doesn't melt. It doesn't blend. It stands tall and proud on the plate, daring you to pretend it's palatable.
My mom, bless her optimism, tried everything. Cheese sauce, garlic butter, roasted with lemon zest. She called it "fun-sized trees" when we were little, as if rebranding could erase the mouthfeel. But no matter how she dressed it up, broccoli remained broccoli - a green gatekeeper of health, and the enemy of joy.
We were a family united in our distaste. My siblings and I exchanged glances across the table, silent in our rebellion. Even my dad, usually stoic in his culinary diplomacy, would push the green trees to the edge of his plate like a child. Still, my mom persisted. She believed in vitamins, in fiber, in the power of seasoning. She believed, most of all, that we could learn to love what was good for us.
But broccoli wasn't just a vegetable in my eyes. It was a symbol of everything we were supposed to accept - the rules, the routines, the "just try one bite" moments. It was the texture of compromise. Of being told what's best and expected to agree.
I think mom knew we hated it. But she kept trying, not because she thought she could change our tastebuds, but because she hoped we'd learn something deeper: that effort matters. That care sometimes comes disguised in things you don't like. That love can be steamed, salted, and served with a hopeful smile.
Now, when I see broccoli on a menu, I still flinch. But I also think of her - standing in the kitchen, determined, creative, resilient. Trying to make something bitter taste like love.