Just To Feed Us

Every evening at half-past eight, our mother would tuck us quietly in

bed warning us not to move or make a sound. She’d tell us that she

would be off to find bread for tomorrow’s breakfast, empty her purse

of its last three coins, and fly off into the deep, dark night. Where

would she ever find bread? Which market is open at such a late hour?

I’d ponder these things ’til my eyes drifted shut.

I could see her roaming the dark, desolate streets, rummaging through

dumpsters and stale alley corners. I could see her rapping at the

windows of lackadaisical townsfolk, falling to her knees to beg for

crumbs. I could see her wandering through town way into the wee hours

as markets began to open even before the first sunrays took breath. I

could see her pushing through the gathering crowd, offering her three

coins, and being turned down. I could see her desperately lunging for

a loaf, quickly hiding it in her bosom, and turning away. I could see

her running like the wind through the throng, through the alleys,

through the streets on her bare feet, racing to keep under the night’s

shadow before it was completely swallowed by the day.

At last, as our windows would open their eyes to take in the morning

light, so would my brother and I. We’d stare at the door knowing that,

in a matter of moments, mother would burst through-- bread in hand.

She’d break it in three, and we’d sit in silence consuming the insipid

breakfast. The final morsel would always mysteriously taste a tad bit

delicious as my mind only attempted to fathom all the things she’d

gone through just to feed us.