I had finally found the treasure. It was in Tonja’s kitchen pantry. There, strategically hidden behind two rolls of paper towels and a bottle of Christian Brothers Brandy, a big bag of candy. The bag was filled with Hershey Bars and Kisses, Krackles, Nestle Crunches, Snickers, Twix, Kit Kats, Peanut Butter cups, Twizzlers and M and M’s (both types.)

The kitchen was chilly and dark, similar to my mood. One little light above the stove flickered on and off. A crumbled receipt from Costco for the Brandy was on the floor. I told myself, “I’ll only have a few pieces.” I was already stuffed from the fried chicken and watery coleslaw I had just consumed solo while standing at Tonja’s kitchen counter.

Yes, “Just a few pieces.”

I grabbed a Peanut Butter cup, a Twix, and Kit Kat, my hand squeezing the mini-sized candy. I shut the pantry door and walked slowly back to the living room.

I sat on the leather recliner, unwrapped the candy and consumed it with vigor. Yes, vigor. Almost cavewoman like. This was not a savoring of the candy, but more of a gobbling. I stuffed the empty wrappers in my purse.

My next move? Back to the kitchen, to the pantry, move the paper towels and bottle of brandy, put my hand in the bag of candy, take more candy, back to the living room, sit in the recliner, gobble the candy, empty wrappers in my purse, back to the kitchen.

It became a dance. My dance.

And a 1-2-3-4- Back to the kitchen, to the pantry, move paper towels and bottle of brandy, place hand in bag of candy, take more candy, back to the living room, sit in recliner, gobble the candy, empty wrappers in my purse, back to the kitchen 5-6-7-8.

Like a perfectly orchestrated dance. A ritual.

Tonja was asleep. My feelings: wide awake. It was all I could do to not feel them.

The day before had been a doozy. The multiple peanut butter cups I consumed temporarily buried the grief I felt from going to Mom’s grave. By the way, on my mom’s grave I placed one stolen flower (that’s another story) and a Hershey bar 1-2-3-4.

Later, dinner with Tonja, my 87 year-old stepmom and Simone my stepsister. I am going to say it, here you go. It can be challenging to be with my stepmom when she’s high on brandy and Vicodin. But worse? My stepsister, a dry drunk, whose mood bubbles like a volcano. With sudden explosions of anger, rage and expletives. The ash covering me. Me, trying to keep my cells in check. I have forgiven Tonja, but it seems my cells and nervous system can’t seem to forget. They can’t forget her affair with my father that was the backdrop of my childhood. It’s always there. Always.

So candy, lots of candy, Snickers, Krackles, Twix, and Kit Kats, 5-6-7-8.

Once that dance was over (i.e. no candy left) I fox-trotted over to the fridge. I opened the fridge and spotted the unopened packet of Swiss cheese. Eight slices of cheese. I told myself, “I’ll only have one slice of cheese.” I took one slice of cheese, closed the fridge, gobbled the cheese. My feet never moved.

Then it happened:

Like a conductor standing in front of the orchestra,

Open fridge, take slice of cheese, close fridge, gobble the cheese.

Again.

1-2-3-4 Open fridge, take slice of cheese, close fridge, gobble the cheese, 5-6-7-8.

I did that 8 times. Yes, 8 times.

My sad orchestra of candy playing the violin, the cheese playing the cello. The fried chicken and watery coleslaw on the viola and bassoon.

It didn’t really work. It never works.

My feelings didn’t get full.

And with that I did the somber march to the bedroom. 5-6-7-8.