Fragmented

Pringle's Cans

A rare treat, chip duck bills do often too soon come to a crunchy and delicious end. But there is more than just that fun to a Pringle's can. The little boy grabbed the canister off the workbench before his father could slide it over the end of the wood surface into the metal trash can. He ran with it from the barn straight to the back door of the kitchen. His mother, hands soaking in dirtied dish water, lifted a brow but didn't question him as he disappeared behind the pantry door. Inside the dimly lit room lined on either side with mason jars and sacks of red skin potatoes, he set the canister on the ground next to a rickety old stepladder stained with the contents of a shattered beet jar. Carefully he climbed, seeing things that his eyes wouldn't naturally see until his growth spurt several years down the line. On step three of five, he reached for the sealed jar of dried black beans, the result of green beans left too long in the waning days of summer. Cradling the jar in one hand, he used his other for balance while descending the ladder, shrinking back down to the proper height of a child his age. He plucked up the Pringles can before half skipping to the kitchen table. Determining his goal, the mother dried her pruned fingers so she could break the seal of the black bean Mason jar. She used a wiggling spoon to pop the lid. A metallic-puckering kiss planted itself in their ears, signaling her success. She helped him pour a dozen or so beans into the crumb cluttered bottom of the Pringles can. He sealed them inside with the snapping of the translucent lid over the curled cardboard rim. After a few test shakes, the little girl came into the kitchen from where she was playing in the living room. With a reluctant sigh, the mother took her clean dishes and set them on the floor adorned with a few of her cooking utensils. In that moment, the little boy's smile shadowed all his bad memories. He drummed his fingers on the lid of his newest musical creation. As the mother knew, there was nothing quite like the rhythm of a Pringles can paired with wood spoons on a freshly washed pot and pan.