His cheeks flush. Folding over the plate—a make-your-own, bearing his hand-drawn city skyline—he spits some­thing out. I set down my water glass and peer at the top of his head, a crop, I want to say mustard gold, I want to say flaxen, I want to tousle it the way I do more and more now that he mea­sures just seven inches shy of my height. 

one mis­sis­sip­pi

On that skyline, mark­ered when he turned five and declared himself an archi­tect, sit hunks of yellow and beige, a wedge of green. Mac­a­roni bits. A corner of King’s Hawai­ian. How did it fit? My husband was just telling our boys about ancient Greece, their latest his­tor­i­cal curios­i­ty, while I con­sid­ered myths—which to teach first, which are too scary. I didn’t notice all that food go into his mouth, all at once. 

two mis­sis­sip­pi

Is the mac and cheese too hot for his tongue? Has it seared his soft palette? But by the time our family of five sits to eat, the mac and cheese is luke­warm. What about the cucum­ber, the chick­peas fresh out of the fridge? Why the King’s Hawai­ian, ripped from a room-tem­per­a­ture dozen? 

three mis­sis­sip­pi

Perhaps the culprit lurks in the plate. Melamine min­gling with dinner, an off taste. But these plates have never been microwaved. FDA guidelines. 

He’s silent. I zero in. Mustard gold. 

four mis­sis­sip­pi

I haven’t served a pretzel, popcorn, or potato chip tonight. No hot dog or grape, which, until recent­ly, I chopped into tiny pieces. No raw vegetables—at nine, he doesn’t like them as much as he enjoys roasted aspara­gus and sauteed green beans. He’s never tried a cherry. 

I scan the debris field under his chin, as if a pit from an invis­i­ble stone fruit will appear. 

five mis­sis­sip­pi

He stands up, hands flying to throat, but remains mute. Is anyone talking? Am I? 

six mis­sis­sip­pi

My husband pushes back hard, the wicker chair scrap­ing the oak floor, and springs to our son, who stares at me. He doesn’t seem to notice his father or broth­ers. He looks only for me.

I stare back, search­ing for some­thing in his face—the wide blue eyes, the pink-splashed cheeks—that will tell me what is happening. 

seven mis­sis­sip­pi

Thump, thump, thump. My husband bangs our son’s upper back. I glance under his plate at the mat I made for him when he was three, had his first-ever school photo lam­i­nat­ed inside a rec­tan­gle alpha­bet. I notice a creep of black mildew and make a note. 

eight mis­sis­sip­pi

Thwack. His big brother twists in his seat, his iden­ti­cal twin flies from the room. 

nine mis­sis­sip­pi

I do not remem­ber that we have a device for meal­time crises, a vacuum designed to seal a child’s nose and mouth and suck out peanut butter or marsh­mal­lows. I do not remem­ber that I bought it three years ago after seeing an ad on Face­book. I do not remem­ber that I stored the device in the white cabinet just behind my chair so that, during any ordi­nary dinner of Kraft mac­a­roni and cheese, King’s Hawai­ian, cucum­ber rounds, and chick­peas, should a morsel get lodged in one of my boys’ throats, I would be ready. Back then, I con­grat­u­lat­ed myself. Buying this miracle gadget, storing it at arm’s reach, leveled me up to EMT.

But I don’t remem­ber it. Instead, I’m narrow. Fogged.

ten mis­sis­sip­pi

Finally, a sound. He rasps, “Help.”

eleven mis­sis­sip­pi

Real­iza­tion is a sudden flood­light, pierc­ing and crisp.

twelve mis­sis­sip­pi

I shoot up, horse­shoe around the table, zip my fore­fin­ger to my middle finger, dive into his mouth, and swipe the back of his throat, right to left, without recall­ing why I know how to do that, how to swipe. Days from now, I will read that the maneu­ver is out­dat­ed, even risky.

My fingers evac­u­ate the last chickpeas. 

thir­teen mississippi

We are more likely to choke to death than to die by acci­den­tal gunfire or in a plane crash. Among preschool-aged chil­dren, choking is the fourth leading cause of unin­ten­tion­al death. Many deaths occur because others don’t realize the victim is choking. Like drown­ing, choking might look like some­thing else. A fit of coughs. Or laughter.

Those who don’t die often end up requir­ing emer­gency care due to extreme oxygen depri­va­tion. Many suffer per­ma­nent brain damage. 

Some say brain damage can occur in as little as thirty seconds.

four­teen mississippi

He croaks out another word: “Ouch.” Then he starts to cry. I gather him as he heaves gruff, lung-fired sobs. 

fifteen mis­sis­sip­pi

Next meal, I will steam rice to mush. I will relent­less­ly debone chicken, dice mush­rooms to smithereens, yield to the wave of ways my chil­dren might die. My dreams fill with the least likely: light­ning; rabies; we’re on an open-air train in the desert and my boy tumbles off, starts running to keep up, and I’m stu­pe­fied, help­less, as my son, scream­ing for me, falls farther and farther behind. 

I will make more soup.