She rises beneath the cavernous stainless-steel hood, a reverse birth, and the metal gleams in the streetlight beyond the French doors and she wears the apparatus like a costume from the future, her metal dress. Ada wants to cook for her family too-bacon butternut squash peasant bread mushroom risotto tomato bisque cinnamon walnut rolls vegetable beef stew rack of lamb-she wants a foot to caress the rich wood, a finger to trace the star-shaped burner. What makes you think it won’t happen to you? I fall asleep beneath twinkle lights and wish for visitations by familiar ghosts, but I have Ada instead.Īda slides through the summer’s thickest air in my night kitchen, wanting to press a cheek against the oven’s blue finish, to skate across the half-laid Brazilian walnut flooring.
All the holidays every day! The car took us to the health checkups and the fun parks, the playgrounds and parties, to the grocery and work, to the last vacation. What makes you think it can’t happen to you? Deep winter spreads inside me and I keep it lit with potted fir trees twinkling on the porch, flanking the front door hung with a misshapen heart wreath. My walkway is lined with small flags we waved on the 4 th of July before the accident in August crushed everyone in the car but me and I keep spare sparklers in my purse now for emergencies.
I create glow because I otherwise wouldn’t return from the darkness.
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