Grief Sandwiches by Lucas Flatt and Travis Flatt

I’m in the elevator with the angel.

“I’m hungry,” I say.

“You can eat peanut butter again.”

My mother hated the smell of peanut butter. As kids, my brother and I got it all over everything. Mom said it smelled to her like dogshit.

For the funeral, I told my brother I’d run back to our parents’ house and pick out pictures of mom from family albums.

My real plan is to attempt to cry.

The angel’s face is a mask of serenity, so you can’t tell if it’s joking. It always smiles.

Because of its wings, it only stands. It never rides in the car—it wouldn’t fit. It rides on top, serene, or else just re-appears with a swirl of dove feathers and a whiff of red wine. 

I stop and buy two jars of Jif, my brand, for making grief sandwiches.

In my mother’s kitchen I ask, “Why didn’t you do something.”

It stands at my mom’s place at the table, opposite me with back to the window, gold-gilded plate mail etched in dead language glittering in the sunlight. It doesn’t eat, just smiles and watches.

It appeared near the end, when they started talking about removing Mom’s breathing tube. I’d hoped for help, but nothing, just the occasional observation, like, “She’s gone,” or, a moment ago, “You have peanut butter on your fingers.”

I can’t cry.

The angel smiles.

“Why didn’t you help,” I say.

It smiles.

“You shouldn’t do it.”

“Do what?”

It smiles.

The angel is gorgeous, blonde, and androgynous. Powerfully built, prettier than handsome. Wavy hair the color of Grey Poupon mustard.

“Is she in heaven?” I say.

“I can’t tell you,” it says. And smiles.

“Why are you here?”

“You shouldn’t do it,” it says. It sets a hand on the tile top of the kitchen table with a small thump, like a pat on the back.

“Is my mother in heaven?” I say, reaching into the sink and pulling out the Jif-caked knife.

“I can’t tell you.” For the first time, the angel’s smile has moved to its eyes.

I screech the kitchen table aside and lunge, grab the angel by the throat. “Is she in heaven?”

The angel smiles. I can’t dent the warm, hard flesh. The knife trails peanut butter along its pale, radiant skin.

“You shouldn’t do this,” the angel says, smiling.

I might be crying. I dig the knife around the angel’s throat. It sighs and disappears. I drop the knife and crack the tile top. I’ve peanut butter everywhere.

My mother loved her table, and my face feels dry. When the angel doesn’t reappear I leave the mess and the pictures. I’m driving back, slowly. I’m checking above me at the stop lights.

My brother leans close in the lobby. He asks me, “What’s that on your face?”

Travis Flatt (he/him) is a secondary teacher living in Cookeville, Tennessee. His stories appear in Fractured Lit, Gone Lawn, Bending Genres, and other places. He enjoys theater, dogs, and theatrical dogs, often with his wife and son.

Lucas Flatt (he/him) is a professor at Volunteer State Community College living in Cookeville, Tennessee. His stories appear in Pithead Chapel, Puerto del Sol, Maudlin House, and other places. He enjoys playing guitar for his wife, his kids, and in just in general.