perfect way to bring it off.
I empty every closet and drawer and bin in the house to find an object that might end her in a way I find pleasurable. I go through the entire house and then I go through it again. I am always finding one more dangerous object, but never the right dangerous object. In the course of this work I realize I haven’t seen my mother in a week. She hasn’t been through the house or left it. There’s been no gentle door closing and crunch of earth as she skitters away. Her absence rings loud now. I look for her in the house. I look beneath the dangerous objects and in closets and under blankets. I look outside. I walk in fast circles around the sphere but she isn’t there. I venture into the surrounding woods, but I don’t want to lose sight of the house. I am safe as long as the shining sphere is still within my line of vision. Seeing it makes me relax drawn fists and sigh deeply. But my mother is not near the house. Not in the house. Nowhere.
I work to straighten the clutter and put things where they belong. I begin to cook myself meals. I try to make the meals she would make to demonstrate to her that I am capable, but when that doesn’t lure her home, I make meals more enticing than her meals. My meals are full of complicated flavor combinations. Saffron and chocolate, lavender and smoked ham. I shred and mince and scallop and add ruffles and delicate edges. Soon, I run out of almost everything, but the house is infinitely well stocked in flour and sugar and butter and vanilla and chocolate. Even eggs and dairy are plentiful, thanks to the animals my mother kept on hand. So I sift and fold and stir and whisk and bake. My body grows leaner and stronger from all the work. The house smells of cinnamon and clove and chocolate and caramel. Even the walls are sticky. The house is overwhelmingly sweet. I eat gingerbread and chocolate chip cookies, but there is excess, more than I can possibly consume, so I use them to decorate the house. I attach shortbread cookies to the sphere’s exterior with
Brandi Wells | 13