It’s early morning. Light is starting to filter through the shades drawn low to keep the cool night Oregon air inside. You hear the first signs of the household stirring. You’re alone with the ovens firing behind you and dough on the counter ready to go in.
This is open before you:
from Citizen, Part V
by Claudia Rankine
In line at the drugstore it’s finally your turn, and then it’s
not as he walks in front of you and puts his things on the
counter. The cashier says, Sir, she was next. When he
turns to you he is truly surprised.
Oh my God, I didn’t see you.
You must be in a hurry, you offer.
No, no, no, I really didn’t see you.
She wanders down from her long, calm night, nestled among the stuffed animals that pile her bed. She has always been drawn to them, a collection she sinks into the way she submerges into the world she’s built for herself. Because of them, she always has someone to talk to and something to say.
You had seen her in slumber right before you went to bed. Last thing, you tucked the dough away in the fridge for its long nap and you went to check on her and then her brother. She had been still and stoic, and you wondered what was happening in her world that you might have forgotten to ask that day. She’s getting old enough that many times you don’t even know what to ask anymore. You suspect she has her first crush, but it’s hard to tell. Every now and then, she offers a morsel of her story and you are blindsided by its brevity and its maturity. But in the balance always hangs that spec that could blow in any direction. Can you help her understand something more about this day? Can she help you? What put you so gratefully, snugly together in this world?
She wanders down this morning rubbing her cat-eyes. “Morning, Mama,” she says. “Good morning, Love.”
She watches you slash the top of the loaves and slide them into the oven. Perhaps it doesn’t matter that you spent the day before making this bread. To her, it’s just what you do. When you look up, your heart burns to see her more fully; not to miss her at the checkout line. Please, you think, please please please don’t miss her.
You open your mouth, but before you can speak, she says, “Can I have some mama bread?” It’s a couple days old and suited only for toast. It’s the only thing you know for sure you can give her in this moment.
“Of course,” you say. “I’ll toast two. We can eat together.”
So lovely, Adrian. Your poetic Light truly shines through your writing and touches the heart. True art. Thank you for being here. <3