By LA Carson
I smell it before I see it. Burnt bread. I ditch my stingray in the front yard, not messing with the kickstand, and scramble up cracked cement steps and into the house. Momma’s wailing behind her locked bedroom door. I hunker down on the other side, my cheeks smashed between the doorknob and doorframe.
“A charred loaf ain’t nothing to cry about Momma,” I holler through the door.
I use my quiet voice and remind her that we got bread from the Save-A-Lot in the cupboard, but she might not hear me, what with her bawling and carrying on. Ever since that time the squad came for her, I got to be extra careful. It don’t take much to shatter Momma. Same as that tiny blue robin’s egg that fell out of its nest on my window ledge and cracked open on the ground, Momma’s fragile like that.
In the kitchen, the troublemaker blob of charcoaled bread looks like a giant marshmallow singed too long over a campfire. Still in the loaf pan, it’s dumped over sideways on the stovetop, pretending to be sorry for the commotion it caused. I grab the step stool, on account of first grade arms can’t reach the knob that turns off the oven. Next, I slap bologna between two Sav-A-Lot slices, add a squirt of French’s, then cut the sandwich into two triangles and pour a cold glass of milk. Leaving all that on the counter, I head out back, careful not to let the screen door slam behind me. The grass is tall enough to tickle my knees when I bend over to yank up a clump of dandelions. Back inside, I shove ‘em in a glass of tap water, then I load the food and flowers on top of my Charlotte’s Web book, like it’s a tray. I cart everything down the hallway and park the tray on the floor beside Momma’s bedroom door and knock.
“I got dinner for you Momma.”
Her sobs sound faraway now, like she fell down the neighbor’s well, but she don’t answer, so I snag the pillow and blanket off my bed and drag ‘em to the floor outside Momma’s door, pretending like it’s a campout. As the streetlights flicker on, my belly growls so I eat half the sandwich, swallow a gulp of milk, hoping Momma won’t mind sharing.
Sunshine through the dirty hallway window wakes me in the morning. Both paws on the cat wall clock are up past the whiskers, so I missed the school bus again. Momma’s door is still locked but there’s no ruckus, just the faint sound of her snoring. The house is quiet, like the school library or Momma’s old hospital room. Sometimes the quiet is scarier than the noise. The untouched tray is where I left it but the milk is warm and the bread feels rough, like chapped lips.
The dandelions bowed their heads.
I want to tell her I miss him, too.
Sourdough was Daddy’s favorite.
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LA Carson writes fiction and creative nonfiction in North Carolina while nursing a homesickness for Southern California.