Got Milk?

This is an original piece I wrote for my elective literature class, in which we were tasked to write a brief childhood memoir. This is about a certain phobia I have, as well as one of the things I really can't stand to take in. Enjoy!

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       My hands were shaking in front of me and I hastily slipped them under the table, away from view. My dad was clearing the breakfast plates away, and my cousin and sisters were chatting noisily about heading to F.A.O. Schwartz after breakfast, which was just around the corner from our apartment. My nose itched and I was aching to scratch it, but knew my nervous hands would give everything away.

        It was a clear, crisp spring day. The big picture windows of our apartment overlooked the busy and bustling streets of a typical San Francisco morning. The clouds were hanging low but the sun was out, leaving the weather chilly but fresh. Businesspeople hustled along the streets below our building, most of them clad in trench coats in all shades of grey. They looked like tiny ants from where we were situated.

           The high-rise buildings all around us were also grey and made out of stone. I could see people already hard at work through their office windows, working behind their typewriter or computer. The thick white blinds of our windows cast shadows onto the carpeted apartment floor that looked like a dark, diagonal staircase.

        My head snapped back to attention as my cousin yelped with excitement. I turned my head to where she was looking, and out came my dad from the kitchen, carrying four of it. My stomach did an aerial and froze in midair. I had been dreading this from the moment I had woken up at that morning.

           Earlier in the morning, I had awaken to the cold and the sound of horns honking outside my window. The shades had been drawn and I squinted into the early morning sunlight. ‘Ah, what a beautiful day,’ I had thought to myself, watching as pigeons flitted past my window and landed on the ground in the plaza down below, near my building. My stomach had grumbled and the smell of fried bacon wafted under my nose.

       I had been so excited to get up for breakfast, then. In fact, I was excited to get up for breakfast everyday! I just always neglected the fact that at the end of every breakfast meal, my worst enemy made a big show of itself and would be forced by my dad down my throat.

Most kids my age were afraid of getting cooties from the opposite sex in school or finding out that the latest toy had run out of stock. Their biggest fears were crossing the street alone or ice skating without holding onto the safety bars.

But I wasn’t any ordinary kid my age. My biggest fear was tall with a slender waist, whose skin was clear and whose insides were a watery white. It originated from cows, as my mom would tell me, and was supposed to be good for my health in order to keep my bones stronger. Its sordid name, I regret to mention, is Milk.

Milk was afraid of me, afraid of getting into my system because it knew I would throw it up on the kitchen table, causing my dad to stir up a commotion and send me to my room. I, in turn, was afraid of it, too. Its white watery goodness, to some people, was comforting and settled into their stomachs. In my case, the thick taste was enough to not allow my stomach—a usually fair, sensitive part of my body—to cooperate. Milk and I had gone through many battles, a great number of which resulted in staying home from school to nurse my queasy tummy.

I took a big gulp of my own saliva, which was running out from anxiety. My cousin and sisters watched me as I watched my dad place the tall glass in front of me on the table and walk away.

This was it, the most dreaded part of my day. I clasped both my hands around the glass’s body and proceeded to lift it up to my mouth. The smell was intoxicating and I opened my mouth to gag. I could feel my cousin and my sisters watching me, waiting for the moment I gave it up. Finally, after what seemed like hours, my cousin stopped me. ‘Wait!’ she shrieked, softly, so my dad wouldn’t hear her. ‘Let me.’ She grabbed my glass and chugged the contents down in a matter of minutes. I just sat there watching her, amazed and grateful at the same time.

My cousin shoved the glass back my way, just as my dad appeared from the kitchen.

‘All done,’ I said, a silly grin taking over my face, and I got up from the table to enjoy the rest of what I knew was going to be a great day. 

(c) An original piece by Ella Fortun