Don’t Cry Over Spilled Milk
I stumbled into the kitchen running my hand along the wall, feeling for the lightswitch
in its usual place on the wall. I gave a long, weary sigh as the light blinded me through the
shield of my hand protecting my eyes. My eyes, lifeless and droopy, remind me of the
sleepless night I had just endured. I flung open the pantry door and stared blankly at the
unopened bag of Lucky Charms sitting on the shelf. I grimace, of course it was the only
option I had. This unlucky streak I had going for me didn’t seem as though it was getting any
better. I needed to hurry up and get to school to rewrite my math test. I needed food to fuel
my brain, I couldn’t risk failing yet again. I reach for a bowl from the cupboard above me, and
it slips out of my grasp falling victim to my sweaty palms. It clatters to the floor and shatters
into thousands of little ceramic shards on the ground. My heartbeat accelerates upon
hearing the ruckus I had just created. What was happening to me? I had never let a test get
to my head the way this one had. Thoughts swarmed my brain like a million bees
surrounding their hive. What would have happened if I had just studied harder? Practiced for
longer? Would I have made the same mistakes that I did? My eyes welled up with tears.
Looking up in an attempt to stop the floodgates of my eyes from being opened, I sweep the
floor beneath me, careful not to step on the shards. I find a different bowl to replace the one I
had broken and I tear open the bag of Lucky Charms. If only they truly were lucky, and
helped me ace my math test. Glancing at the clock, I pour my cereal into the bowl. I needed
to move faster, the bus would be here anytime now and I hadn’t even finished making
breakfast. I open the fridge scanning the door for the milk carton, I grab it and dart to the
counter in an effort to be more efficient. I stare out the window looking for a sign of the
school bus. A cold wet drop of milk hits my foot, jolting me back into reality. A pool of milk
formed on the counter, slowly making its way onto the tile. I catch a glimpse of myself in the
pearly reflection on the counter, noticing the creases in my forehead and the downturned
corners of my mouth. I couldn’t seem to do anything right, my math test, and now making a
bowl of cereal. A tear rolls down my cheek and drops into the white puddle on the floor. I
hear the school bus pull into my street, wait for a second, and leave. There was nothing that
could be done. My only chance to redeem myself was gone, I couldn’t rewrite my test. My
mother hurriedly stormed into the kitchen, her face aghast when she saw the condition of her
kitchen. She walked up to me, her eyes glancing back and forth between myself and the
mess I had made. Another tear rolled down my face and she reached out and wiped it.
“Crying over spilt milk?” She questioned. She was right. There was nothing that could be
done. My math test was over. There was no use in the stress it had caused me.