The ice cube trays fit in a narrow lane on freezer floor, stacked three high and wedged in-between the frozen fruit and the bag of flour we’ve stored in there ever since the great weevil infestation of 2010. The trays are cozy and well-placed. They can all three be filled to the brim with water and rest neatly, no threat of spill.
But the 11 year-old has no regard. Habitual cruncher of ice, she returns half-empty trays not to their rightful spot but to the top shelf, teetering atop bags of frozen peas and winter mix and nearly spilling over onto the Egos. It is an affront. She has no regard for order or forethought, not to mention consideration for the on-edge mid-life character she lives with, the one who will discover the trays in the morning and be so snitty as to . . . BLOG ABOUT THEM.
She doesn’t care for order and placement, only for whatever she’s interested in that very moment, whatever ice-fueled interest is crowding out all thought of responsibility.
What is she trying to teach me?