It is my mother calling me for dinner.
Except I am not a little girl anymore. I am a grown woman, a mother myself, and I need to make dinner for my own little girls. I only know how to make soft margarine and white sugar sandwiches on sticky Wonder bread. These are a favorite of my childhood friend – who at that very moment is having her own daughter taken from her. I hurriedly hand my old friend some sandwiches for her journey to find her daughter – only I mistakenly hand her the wrong kind of everything and it is a moldy loaf of bad luck instead of soft sweet sandwiches. Then I turn my attention to crafting a meal for my offspring out of what is left for me: some weeds and twigs I mix and steep in a muddy broth.
I am upset about many things but I cannot stop to feel anything because I must make dinner. So I push all my feelings down into the muddy concoction I will feed my daughters.
And my mother calls me for dinner but I ignore her. I nourish my girls with food from the earth and emotions roiling beneath me, and hope they will thrive on my food – my meal: nature entwined with intense imagination.