Half-Full, Half-Empty

When I was eight, my mother and I made a weekly ritual of going to the supermarket. We’d pile our cart high with fruits, vegetables, and grains, but the highlight of the trip was always the milk. My mom picked out the largest jug they had—a gallon of full-fat, creamy milk with a wide bottle cap and a bright blue label.

To my eight-year-old self, it seemed enormous. Every time I lifted it with my wobbly hands, I worried it might spill and create a milky ocean on the kitchen floor. Yet somehow, by Wednesday night, the jug was always empty, and one of us would have to make a late-night trip to the store to get more.

In our house, milk wasn’t just an ingredient—it was a necessity. It anchored our mornings: my parents needed it for chai, my brother and I for our corn flakes and banana milkshakes. It was simply there, unremarkable but irreplaceable. Its absence, however, demanded immediate action.

The kitchen revolved around the rhythm of milk: the clink of the spoon as my father stirred his tea, the slap of my brother’s hand when he snatched the cereal box before me. On weekends, my mother mixed it into pancake batter, filling the kitchen with the sweet smell of vanilla and warmth. 

I don’t remember when I stopped thinking of the milk jug as impossibly heavy. Maybe I was nine, maybe ten. One day, I carried it in from the door and realized I didn’t have to use both hands anymore. The weight hadn’t changed—I had.

The real changes came later, and they were less subtle. When my father got a new job in another city, he left on early Monday mornings and came back late Friday night. Weekday mornings grew quieter, less hurried. My mother, ever efficient, adjusted the groceries. The milk still came in gallons, but it lasted longer now.

By then, my brother was a teenager, and I was eleven. He spent less time at the table, he ate his cereal dry and preferred coffee over milk now. I stayed behind, sitting across from my mother, who sipped her chai in silence.

When my brother left for college, the changes became undeniable. The mornings stretched longer than they needed to. My mother and I circled each other in the kitchen, unsure of what to say, the absence too loud to ignore. Suddenly, there was too much of everything—too much space at the table, too many leftovers, and too much milk. My mother switched to buying half-gallons, but even those started to go sour before we could finish them.

On Sundays, mom still made pancakes, even though it was just the two of us now. I stopped sitting at the table altogether, peering over my plate and pretending not to notice the quiet in our once loud home, a prickly feeling.

People often ask if I miss my father, if I miss the noise my brother used to bring into the house. I laugh and shrug, saying I enjoy the peace. It's easier than explaining how last week, I reached for the milk and saw it sitting there, untouched. My hand froze, and for a second, I was eight again, wobbling under its weight, certain I’d spill it all. It’s easier than explaining the grief that sneaks in when I least expect it.

It’s not the loud kind of grief—the kind that hits you all at once. It’s quieter, harder to name. It’s the feeling that rises in my chest when I open the fridge and see the half-gallon bottle of milk lying untouched for days. It’s the ache that comes when I remember how my brother used to pour too much milk into his cereal, leaving behind soggy pieces floating in white pools. 

I miss things I didn’t even know I cared about—the clatter of spoons, the low hum of conversation, the chaos of mornings when we were all running late. But how do you grieve for a milk jug? For the way it held us together, quietly and unassumingly, until one day it didn’t?

Now, when I go grocery shopping, I pick up a half-gallon of milk out of habit. It sits in the fridge, slowly shrinking as the days go by. I still eat cereal every morning, but my mother has stopped drinking chai. Sometimes, the milk goes bad before we finish it. My mom boils it to make cottage cheese then, and I watch the white liquid swirl and bubble.

I used to think grief was loud. I thought it was crying at funerals, or shouting into a pillow, or writing goodbye letters you never send. But I’ve learned that grief is often quiet. It’s not just about missing people—it’s about missing the way things were, the things you didn’t realize were holding your life together. It’s not just the people who leave—it’s the version of yourself that existed with them. I miss the girl who didn’t think about things like half-gallons or expiration dates, who thought a full jug would always be there. 

I stare at the half-empty bottle of milk and wonder if I will ever feel full again.

~ dhri