Bread
Bread At home, no one saw me—my mother stirring a pot of curry and rice, my father in shawls reciting words in front of theTV set. I was nine. I wanted to be a nun, to taste the dullness of bread melting in my mouth. I wanted to feel stiff cotton straighten my back, holy water on my lips, fingers that ached for smooth glass beads sliding, not the strangeness of sandalwood, not the almonds of parents and grandparents, only the coolness of dark pews, the gardenia’s smell and the silver crucifix against my wrists. No one saw the soft edges curl into the shape of my fingers, bread sliced and curled into the womb of my palm. I would unfold a blue napkin, its crisp leaves stiff over my head, and tear into the bread, leaving the remains an open mouth with nothing to say, my lips in a secret mantra I had watched the priests chant every Friday. The soft coin rested on my tongue as I’d heard Sister Miriam tell us: Just let it rest there until it dissolves like dew on morning grass right when the sun hits it. I sat there feeling my mouth grow hot, listening to my mother stir the rice and eggplant in the kitchen, the scrape of steel spoon against iron slice into my father’s voice. ...
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