The Luna

"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; my mind a jumble of panic and embarrassment as I continuously apologize over and over again. I wipe the ice haphazardly onto my tray, the soda quickly soaking up the light gray fabric of my rag. The woman, bless her heart, dabs at her light blue skirt with some of the flimsy napkins from the table dispenser, 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 actually makes me feel worse. Why isn't she angry or yelling at me? I tripped and spilled soda all over her. Isn't a little anger on her part justified? "Let me at least grab you some club soda for your shirt," My voice is dejected as I toss the wet rag on top of my small pile of ice and scramble away before I can start rambling again. The last thing the poor woman wants after an unintended soda shower, is to hear a sob story. I would like to say that this doesn't happen all that often. That I never trip, fall, or even spill things and that this was a fluke accident. But that would be a lie. Truthfully, I can't even say that it was the first incident I had today. It was only about two hours ago that I tripped carrying a tray of fries that landed on a lovely older couple sitting in booth five. Luckily for me, that was an easier mess to clean up. When I was a kid, my mom would joke that I should come with a caution sign. She swore up and down that I must be the only person on this planet that could trip over nothing - even if I wasn't moving at all. I like to think I am a little more coordinated than that. I mean it takes something to trip me, not just my own feet. The tray crashes into the sink with a resounding thud, that is in no way as satisfying as I had hoped it would be to relieve the pressure building in my chest. My mom appears in my mind, beautiful and healthy. Exactly how she was before the cancer took its hold and slowly ripped her from me. I should have known that I couldn't hide from her memory today. They say time heals all wounds. Well, I don't know who they are exactly, but I do know they're a bunch of liars. To this day, my mom is the first person that I want to call after a long day. I want to tell her all about the weird truck driver that only refers to himself in third person or about how, even though it was a bad day, I'm trying to keep positive just as I had promised her I would. No, it doesn't get easier - it gets numb. Like the weight of sunglasses on your head, eventually you don't even realize they're still there until someone says something, or you go looking. Despite how hard I tried not to, today I went looking. The anniversary of her death is always hard, and I hate that I can't stop counting. Three years. One thousand ninety-five days. Twenty-six thousand two hundred eighty hours. I googled the days and hours this morning, wondering exactly how long it had been since I had last seen her. When I had last heard her voice for sure. Sometimes I panic that I forgot what her voice sounded like, but other times, it's like she's right there whispering in my ear. Mostly though, I'm reminded today, of all the regrets that 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 tell 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 take a deep breath, pushing against the past that is threatening to overtake me, and grab a cup, filling it with club soda. 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 to say, but the woman 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 as I make my way back to the kitchen. The condition of the restaurant 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. Hand scooped ice cream shakes with two straws, lovers' sundaes drew in the date night crowd. Not to mention the family combo (which consisted of four burgers, four fries, and drinks for only twenty-five dollars at the time. With any what was comes the what happened. The cost of living went up and Erin had to up her prices. That might not have been that bad. Businesses had survived price increases before, but shortly after the increase, Erin passed away in a car accident and her daughter, Charlotte, took over. I never met Erin, never saw the diner in its prime, other than the pictures that hang on the wall. But from the stories that Charlotte and other clients had told me, I would have loved Erin just as much as I love Charlotte. I owe Charlotte so much. She took pity on me, poor little Amelia, orphaned at sixteen and bounced around different foster homes until even the system didn't want her anymore. Honestly, I don't know where I would be if Charlotte hadn't given a homeless teenage girl a chance - with absolutely no experience of waitressing - a job. Not only that, she 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 her husband built for me to use, just large enough for a microwave and a toaster oven. The bathroom has a toilet and a shower behind two shower curtains in the corner, no door. But it's just me and Charlotte hardly charges me anything at all. "Not again, Mia," Charlotte sighed as I walked into the kitchen. Her hands rested on the stainless steel counter as she eyed me for a moment. Her gaze scrutinizing for a moment before she dropped her chin to her chest in defeat, "That's twice today," "I know, It's just an off day," my hands fly up in surrender as I fight the tears that form behind 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 nod and apologize again as she walks away. I muttered a string of curses under my breath , adjusting my light red hair in my ponytail. There is only one hour of my shift left. One hour before I can curl up on the lumpy futon I got at Goodwill and wallow in self-pity.