Synathroesmus (sin-ath-res’-mus): 1. The conglomeration of many words and expressions either with similar meaning (= synonymia) or not (= congeries). 2. A gathering together of things scattered throughout a speech (= accumulatio [:Bringing together various points made throughout a speech and presenting them again in a forceful, climactic way. A blend of summary and climax.]).
I had that same sandwich every day for lunch for nine years—elementary school, middle school, high school. I didn’t dare to trade lunches with my class mates. Ma had told me she would kill me if I did, just like the guy she killed at the supermarket when she set the orange display loose on him and smothered him under a torrent of rolling navel oranges. It was judged an accident so she got off scott free. Nevertheless, when we misbehaved she alluded to the “accident” and the 50 lb. sack of flour on the top shelf of the cupboard with the piece of rope tied around it. When we were bad she made us stand under the flour with her holding the rope. She’d jiggle the rope and make the sack wobble over our heads and imitate a witch cackling. It was traumatic. It instilled in me the belief that only bad things come from above. So much for God and Jesus and miracles. That hymn, “On The Wings of a Snow White Dove,” gave me panic attacks as the “white dove” for me, was a 50 lb. sack of white flour falling from above and breaking my neck.
Heaven, hell, freedom, curse: peanut butter and jelly every day, every week, every year. White bread sliced into triangles. Crusts gone. No redeeming value like duct tape holding the doorknob on your house. Ridiculous, sticky, craven.
In sum, I was a skinny, hyper-nervous kid, suffocating in peanut butter and jelly packed between white bread triangles and eaten every day for lunch. I had to do something. I considered killing my mother, but given my luck, I knew I’d get caught and end up in prison. Instead, I decided to lure her into the cupboard and slash the flour bag and make the flour cascade down on her—covering her in flour and teaching her lesson.
To get her into the cupboard, I told her I noticed that Dad had left a wrapped package in the cupboard right before he ran away with his 20-year old secretary Bunny. With an a angry look on her face Ma said “Yeah?” and started rummaging in the cupboard. I pulled my knife and slit the bag, but I slipped and cut off Ma’s right ear. It was a gusher. Her blood mixed with the flour turned pink—it was not altogether unpleasant. It reminded me of the makings of a Valentine’s Day bundt cake.
Nevertheless, I called 911. Ma was cursing me out as she bled all over the kitchen floor looking for her ear. The ambulance arrived and I picked up her ear—it was lodged under the refrigerator. I had to stick a fork in it to pull it loose.
Ma’s ear was successfully sewn back on, but it was a little crooked. It was bigger than her other ear too, making me think it wasn’t actually her ear. I asked the doctor. He told me hee new ear was harvested from a dead horse whisperer from Montana. Evidently, Ma’s ear was lost on the way to the hospital.
With her new ear, instead of yelling all the time, Ma whispers. This is a huge benefit, although Ma is hard to hear sometimes.
The accident opened a new door in our lives. Ma’s brush with death gave her a new appreciation for life. Now, she works at the pet shop “Roll Over!” She takes care of the Guinea Pigs—feeding them peanut butter and jelly protein treats, brushing them, and whispering to them. But beyond that, she has stopped making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for me! Instead, she gives me a different frozen meal for lunch every day. The school cafeteria has a microwave oven that I cook my lunch in. Today I had a “Hungry Lumberjack” beef-chicken-beaver dinner with mashed potatoes and beer. It prepared me for my 1:00 creative writing class.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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