Like Eden

By Callie Feyen

On the way home from work I listen to a story about a river in Utah whose reservoir is in crisis, but somehow the river can simultaneously restore itself. I learn this as I’m turning onto my street, so that is where the story for me ends. I don’t have time to figure out how something can be in crisis and also restore itself at the same time.

Jesse’s the only one home. Hadley’s at the library, Harper’s at swim. We exchange pleasantries for a few seconds and I walk into the kitchen to empty my lunch bag, and see that we no longer have a microwave. It’s been dying a slow death for a while now, and over the weekend I mentioned I wished we could get rid of it. Jesse said nothing, but laughed through his nose—a gesture I can’t stand and also I know means my idea is pretty dumb.

But he did it! The microwave is gone, and I am ecstatic. “What will we do with this space?” I ask, walking back into the TV room. I am exuberant. We’ll do something fun, no doubt. Paint, maybe. Or put in a shelf for some plants and herbs from our garden.

“Dorothy is giving us her microwave,” he tells me. “I’m gonna go pick it up.”

Dorothy goes to our church and is about 134 years old.

“What?” I say and I know it sounds like a screech. “We’re getting another one?”

“Yeah,” Jesse says. “Because there’s a giant hole in the wall.”

“But I don’t want another microwave,” I say.

This is the first place we lived in that has a microwave in it. I hate it. I didn’t miss having one and in fact was proud of Jesse and I for not only getting by, but thriving without one. I learned the satisfying feel of swirling butter and chocolate with a spatula as it all melted in a pot while water simmered underneath. I loved the hiss of the kettle when we made tea and hot chocolate and the slow pour of bubbling water that made the milk and honey dance. When he took the microwave off the wall, I thought it was a romantic nod to those days.