Originally posted in 2007...

[But I STILL think about that damn plastic fork.]




Shortly before my mother died (not more than two weeks prior), my father, my mother, and I all sat in a row on the edge of my parents' TV, staring at a U.S. Open tennis match. A buff American was playing an equally buff Australian. My mother turned to us and asked, "Could you bring me a fork?"

A fork? Okay, sure. Whatever. My father gave me a look that said, "You heard your mother! Erm... or... well... make her happy?" I ran down to the kitchen and decided a plastic fork might be safer; she accepted the white, plastic fork with obvious, earnest gratitude. Relieved (and holding the fork upright in one hand), she began to nod off to sleep.

My father couldn't contain his curiosity and stopped her mid-drifting to ask her why she wanted the fork.

"In case the Brazilians win!" and she pointed at the TV.


A few nights ago, I was walking home from work, and I spotted a white, plastic fork by the side of the road. I make it a habit to pick up at least one piece of litter per walk, so that I can assuage my own ecological guilt by that one unit. Naturally, the fork found its way to my hand, and I in turn found myself thinking I must look really odd, wielding this shiny, white, plastic fork in the darkness of a Shetland night.

AND THEN I remembered.

And then I felt okay and brandished that fork all the way home. Because I really DO need it, in case the Brazilians win.