By Amy Chamberlin
Yesterday, after supper, I went for a walk with my daughter (Erika) who is ten. She wore her sister’s black and white checked Vans. Summer shoes in the winter except it is spring. There is a point on the road like a border where the gravel begins. Wet snow, slush and ice. A yellow lab dog follows us. Erika reaches down touches him because that’s still (safe). I can hear her voice murmuring lullabies. Then, an ocean opens.
– “My shoes” (she says)
– “They’re dirty” (she is cracking).
We stop at our neighbours. They step out onto their porch almost like grandparents.
– “How’s homeschooling?” (They ask her)
– “How’s work?” (They ask me)
We’re chipper. Our voices mingle and our words come together carrying traces of ourselves forward into this place. In my bag, I packed oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. I reach down. I feel the plastic bag. Too risky. A voice inside rises against me.
I can’t. Give. Anything. Away.