"Reheat" by Rose Hoogers

Grandma was always a giver – belongings, unsolicited advice, second helpings – up until her heart gave out. Despite her giving, she kept a lot, bordering on hoarder status. When clearing out her fridge, I found her parting gift – a full pan of the casserole I didn’t even like fresh. Not even when I was growing up, sitting at her counter covered with mail. She’s wearing her apron and waving her baton, conducting the radio orchestra. My foot’s tapping in time, or it would be if it reached the linoleum. Her arms thrash, her hair bounces, the strings swell, the oven timer interrupts with an avant-garde solo. She drives the baton into the bubbling pan of mush and plops it onto her wedding Corelle. I’d always admired the blossom pattern. And it’s microwave-safe. The radio’s on the curb, and my aunt took the apron. The wooden spoon’s retired from conducting. It’s the emptiest the kitchen’s ever been. And so quiet, aside from two minutes of microwave hum. I carry my plate adorned with green flowers and hash to the clean counter. I sit and take a bite and my foot begins to tap.