The Luna

One

"Oh my goodness, I am so sorry." I try to keep my hysteria to a minimum as I hurriedly wipe up the spilled soda from the table, "The cup slipped right out of my hands, all that condensation."

I can't help but ramble on, apologizing over and over again, as I quickly pile the spilled Ice on my tray haphazardly.

The woman, bless her heart, dabs at her shirt with some napkins from the dispenser, continually reassuring me that there was 'No harm, no foul'.

But that doesn't make me feel any better. If anything, her being so nice about it, only makes me feel worse. Why isn't she angry or yelling at me? I tripped and spilled soda all over the place, isn't a little anger at least what I deserve?

"Let me at least grab you some club soda for your shirt," I toss the wet rag on top of all the ice and scramble away before I start rambling again. The last thing the poor woman wants after an unintended soda bath is to hear a sob story.

I would like to say that this doesn't happen all that often, tripping and/or spilling things, but that would be a lie. Truthfully, I can't even say it was the first time it happened today. It was only about two hours ago that I tripped carrying a tray of fries that landed on a couple in booth five.

Lucky for me, that was an easier mess to clean up.

When I was a kid, my mom would joke that I should have come with a caution sign. She swore up and down that I was the only person who could trip over nothing even if I wasn't moving at all. I like to think I'm a little more coordinated than that. I mean I like to think that it takes something to trip me, not just my own two feet.

The tray crashes into the sink with a resounding thud that in no way was as satisfying as I hoped it would be to relieve this pressure building in my chest.

My mom appears in my mind, beautiful and healthy. How she was before cancer took hold and slowly ripped her from me. I should have known I couldn't hide from her memory today.

They say time heals all wounds. I don't know who 'they' are exactly but I can say for certainty, that they are a bunch of liars.

To this day, the first person I want to call after a long day is my mom. I want to tell her all about the weird truck driver that only ever refers to himself in the third person or about how I'm trying to keep positive as I promised her I would.

No, it doesn't get better or easier - it gets numb. Like the weight of sunglasses on your head, eventually, you don't even realize they're on your head until someone says something or you go looking.

Today is a hard day, the anniversary of her death always is and I hate that I count.

Three years.
1,095 days.
26,280 hours.

I googled that this morning. How long it's been since I had last seen her. Last heard her voice for sure. Sometimes I panic that I forgot what her voice sounded like and how other times it's like she's there whispering in my ear.

Mostly though, I'm reminded today of all the regrets I have. How I didn't get the chance to tell her that I loved her before it was too late. She knew though, right? Moms' just know or is that just what I'm telling myself to feel better.

"Don't you know it's gonna be -All right, you know it's gonna be, all right," I sing the line to the Beatles song over to myself softly, remembering all the times my mom had sung it to me when I was scared or worried.

I grabbed a cup and filled it with club soda, pushing against the past threatening to overtake me. I may not be able to hide from it, but maybe if I keep moving, keep focused on the task at hand, I can at least avoid it until the end of my shift.

"Here you are ma'am," I set the club soda down careful not to make the same mistake twice, my arms instantly hugging around myself, "Again, I am so sorry." I leave the words hanging in the air, unsure what else I can say, but the woman just waves me off.

"Can't dwell honey. It's in the past. No harm, no foul," Her warm smile is like a punch to the chest. How can she be so forgiving?

I avoid the broken piece of linoleum on the floor on my way back to the kitchen. The condition of the floor doesn't really help my clumsiness but I would never say that to management.

Erin's diner, long ago, had been the diner to go to in Crest Falls, Montana. Hand scooped ice cream shakes with two straws, lover sundaes, and the family combo (Which consisted of four burgers, four fries, and drinks for only twenty-five bucks at the time).

But with any 'what was' comes the 'what happened. The cost of living went up and Erin had to up her prices. Shortly after that, Erin passed away in a car accident and her daughter Justice took over.

I never met Erin, never saw the diner in its prime, other than the pictures. But from the stories Justice told I know I would have liked her just as much as I like Justice.

She took pity on me, poor little Amelia, orphaned at Sixteen, and bounced around until even the foster system didn't want her anymore.

Honestly, I don't know where I would be if Justice hadn't given me - an eighteen-year-old homeless teen with no life skills or waitressing experience - a job, and rented me the tiny studio apartment above the restaurant last year. 

I use the term studio loosely. It's a large room with a counter that Justices' husband built for me to use, large enough for a microwave and toaster oven. And the bathroom has a toilet and shower behind two shower curtains in the corner. No door. But it's just me and Justice doesn't charge much.

"Not again, Mia," Justice sighed as I walked into the kitchen. Her hands rested on the stainless steel counter as she eyed me for a moment before dropping her chin to her chest in defeat, "that's twice today,"

"I know, it's an off day," my hands fly up in surrender as I fight the tears from my eyes, "I'm sorry."

"Take twenty-five percent off their bill," she stands to her full height, adjusting her shirt before looking at me, "And please, Mia, be more careful. I can't afford a liability."

I nodded and apologized again as she walks away. I mutter a string of curse words under my breath and adjust my light red hair in my ponytail.

Only one hour of my shift left. One hour before I can curl up on the lumpy futon I got at the Goodwill and wallow in my pain and self-pity.