Weetabix felt so impossibly dry, a crackling sensation in her whole-grain wheat threads. She was sitting, alone, in a bowl on a kitchen counter in a Midwestern home.
It was a winter morning, the thirsty air sucking up all moisture.
She longed for the moderate humidity of the Weetabix box, where her former companions remained.
Weetabix had been extracted from that haven only minutes before by a man. The man wore a long blue robe and had a beard. He had unceremoniously plunked her in a shallow bowl, bits of her edges crumbling off.
And then the man had disappeared, seeming to become distracted by his cellphone.
What would happen next? It had already been such a mysterious journey. Her first memories were of a huge indoor space full of whirring machines, the place where she assumed she’d been stamped into palm-sized being out of a mix of wheat, barley extract and a bit of sugar.
Amid the clatter, she had a few moments to regard herself. She was proud of the elegance of her fibers, the uniformity of her shape.
But too soon she’d been jostled into a plastic bag, and then a box. Packed around her were about a dozen other Weetabix bricks of remarkably similar size and shape, all of them quaking with uncertainty.
Then a long ride in a truck and residence on a supermarket shelf.
For 12 hours a day, she heard soft rock on speakers. She heard footsteps and the murmur of voices, broken by occasional tantrums of children demanding Lucky Charms or Fruity Pebbles. Never Weetabix.
Finally, after about a week, someone (the robed man, she assumed) had removed her box from the shelf. There was another ride and then placement on another shelf. The next morning, the box top was ripped open and one of her box-mates had been plucked from the darkness. The following morning, another.
Then, on the third morning, she had been selected. Placed in a bowl. And made to wait.
In the bowl, she again admired her symmetry, her pleasing earth tones. She was disappointed the robed man hadn’t seemed to lingered longer over these qualities. He’d barely given her a second glance.
But the dryness! Soon it had overtaken her thoughts. She needed relief. She fantasized about jumping into the sink nearby. If only she could move…
Just when she believed she couldn’t bear it any longer, the man returned to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and removed a carton of —
Milk. Oh my goodness, could that be for her? Milk would be far better than water. Thicker and fattier and altogether more luxuriant.
Relieve me! she telegraphed.
And indeed, here it came: the spout. Open. Its slow descent toward the bowl.
A first small splash. Then a pause. Would that be all?
No! Here was a more continuous stream, white and abundant. She felt herself awakening, life flooding back to her, her fibers supple now.
The downpour ceased, but no matter. She was immersed.
She could stay here forever. Here was her destiny. She reveled, so much that when the metal spoon cut into her, she barely noticed.
