Boxed in

“I need shelves in my garage,” my mother informs my brother.

“Now?” my brother asks.

“I need shelves,” my mother insists.  “But, if you’re too busy to build them . . .”

It is summer in Arizona and it’s probably at least 100 degrees in her garage.  But my brother is a Dutiful Son.  He has a busy week at work so decides to build the shelves today.

“Why does she need shelves now?” I ask.

“Her mind is an impenetrable jungle,” the Dutiful Son says.  He may have added several bad words to that sentence. 

My brother installs assorted L-brackets on Mom’s garage walls and fastens planks on top.

Dripping sweat, the Dutiful Son proudly presents the necessary shelves.

Mom nods and steps back into the house.  She returns carrying several boxes.  The Dutiful Son rushes to help.

“I don’t need any help,” Mom insists.  “They are empty.”

“You had me build shelves for empty boxes?”

“They’re good boxes.”  She stares him down.  “You never know when you’ll need a good box.”

“That’s it!” my brother roars over the phone.  “She can build her own damn shelves next time!” 

We both know that is a lie.  Dutiful Sons always help their mothers.

I shake my head as I carry the kitchen trash into the garage.  Empty cardboard boxes, I mutter.

I brush past a jumbled pile of empty plastic containers, almost knocking it over.  There must be a dozen, all stacked and ready to go.

You just never know when you’ll need a good plastic container. 

© Susan Luzader 2021