Even before I got sick Harlow was always the spontaneous and carefree one and I was the kid who followed every rule to a T.
I push the cart forward, scanning the shelves for items I might need.
I rarely make a shopping list, instead preferring to pick out items in a spur of the moment decision that sound like they might make a good meal.
As I peruse the aisles, I add in items here and there.
By the time I’m done and heading to the checkout Harlow is covered in items and looks like she’s regretting her decision to get in the cart now—especially since she can’t get out until I unload it.
I find a line that’s not as busy and get into it. Self-checkout is an option but every time I do that I always get an error message or the machine malfunctions. I’ve learned to avoid it at all costs.
It’s finally my turn to unload my cart and I do it quickly. As soon as Harlow is free she hops out and stretches, throwing in a couple of squats for good measure.
“Gearing up for a race?” I ask her.
She swings her arms. “Yeah, the race to the kitchen to get some food in my belly.”
“You know it’ll take time for me to make dinner, right?”
“That’s what Oreos are for.” And she points to a box that was stuffed behind where she was sitting.
I shake my head and grab it, adding it to the queue.
“You’re lucky I like you or I’d make you put them back.”
She grins. “You’d never. Oreos are magic. No one gets rid of magic.”
I wheel the cart forward and, with Harlow’s help, start loading the bags inside.
The checker gives me a total and I pull out the debit card my mom gave me that’s linked to her and my dad’s account.
I get the receipt and stick it in one of the bags.
Harlow takes control of the cart and treats it like a skateboard. Kicking one foot against the ground and hopping onto the cart to ride it.
I don’t bother scolding her. It doesn’t do any good anyway. Harlow dances to the beat of her own drum.
We load the car then Harlow returns the cart.
Once home we carry everything inside and I immediately get started on making dinner while putting away the groceries. Harlow sits on the couch in the family room across from the kitchen, eating Oreos, and shouting unhelpful tips at me.
Like, “Don’t forget to set the oven to six-hundred degrease. Not only will it cook in seconds it’ll degrease your food.”
I shake my head at her antics and turn on some music, swaying my hips and dancing slightly as I make a homemade pesto sauce.
I slather it across four chicken breasts and stick it in the oven—not at six-hundred degrees, might I add.
I make some mashed potatoes and broccoli to go with it. It’s not much, but I know it’ll be good.
Once everything is made and the rest of the groceries are put away I sit down with Harlow on the couch.
She’s got One Tree Hill playing on the DVD. She begged my parents to buy her all the seasons on DVD for Christmas. I bet they regret doing it now since she’s been watching it non-stop and had probably already watched the entire thing three times before then.
The alarm beeps and the garage door swings open.
“Hey, girls,” my dad says, his voice sounding tired. “Something smells good.”
“I made dinner,” I say unnecessarily. “Pesto chicken.”