“Rest easy, Sal,” I muttered. “I’ll handle what you left behind.”
And then I rolled out, the gravel spitting under my tires as Lyon Crest started swallowing me back whole.
Nova Rae Zore
Widowmaker’s Cry
Recommended Song: Ex-Factor by Lauryn Hill
The kitchen heldits warmth the way only a small room knows how. Steam fogged the window over the sink, drawing soft lines down the glass, and carried the smell of onion and pepper into the hallway like chef’s kisses. Oil snapped in the shallow pan. The radio on the fridge stuttered through a DJ drop and landed on Ashanti’s“Foolish,”the chorus spilling out smooth and sticky. Aaliyah laughed at the beat like it belonged to her.
“Don’t you throw that spoon,” I warned without heat, sliding the green beans with a wooden spatula so the onion didn’t catch. “Mama got on her good tank, and grease don’t love nobody.”
Aaliyah banged the spoon once on the tray of her highchair and then decided clapping was better. Her curls were wild tonight, a soft halo that refused gel and barrettes. Rice hissed under the lid. The cheap bulb overhead hummed. The fridge door wore a full story—church flyer for the Youth Center, a photo booth strip with Grams’ smile, a bill tucked under a magnet shaped like a strawberry.
And my head? It was stuck three days back, in that damn graveyard.
Ro.
Standing in the rain like it never bothered him, water dripping down the side of his beautifully vanilla hued chiseled jawline. His frame had grown in size… in a good but dangerous way. His body was sculpted to perfection. Those same boots that use to sit beside our front door planted in the mud like they were grown there. That curly hair as always left my stomach with butterflies floating in it. Three years I hadn’t seen his face or heard his voice, three years of telling myself I could move forward without him. And then one look, and my whole body remembered what my pride had sworn to forget.Us.
The fork clattered against the pan, grease hissing loud enough to cover the sound. I shook myself, grabbed the spoon, and stirred the collards like they needed my whole attention.
But it didn’t work.
I saw him again. Those eyes—the ones that used to burn through me when we were kids running wild under Lyon Crest streetlights—catching mine across the casket like no time had passed. Except time had passed. It had run me ragged, left me carrying weight in places he’d never touched, left me praying in empty rooms while he was God knows where.
The rain tapped the window, light at first. The sky had been holding it all day. I nudged the flame down a notch and flipped the chicken thighs in the skillet. Skin browned; fat rendered; the smell filled the room in layers—salt, pepper, garlic, the patience of a slow pan. I lifted Aaliyah’s cup to her mouth; she took two sips like a woman with wisdom, then pushed it away with authority and smacked her lips at me.
“Bossy,” I teased, kissing her knuckles. “You got leadership gifts. We gon’ use ‘em right.”
The radio crackled, and the DJ cut in—phone line giveaway, concert tickets for caller nine—then slid the record back under his voice. “Baby,” came next, the first drum glide making my shoulder drop. I swayed, one hand on the pan, the other wiping a splash from the counter with the little towel looped at my waist. A knock from the upstairs apartment answered the bassline. Somebody laughed in the stairwell. A hallway TV gave up the last two jokes of a sitcom and fell quiet.
The stove clock blinked 7:14. The oven door wore its scratch like a scar, white enamel nicked where the handle had smacked a chair too many times. I pulled a plate down—chipped flowers around the rim—and spooned rice onto it, fluffing the grains with the side of the spoon. The lid clicked again from steam. Aaliyah reached both hands toward me and flattened them on the air, fingers swimming. “Ma—ma—” She stretched the second part until her breath ran out and blinked in triumph.
“I hear you, girl. Dinner coming.”
Ashanti’s voice floated through the air“And though my heart can't take no more”, and the rain leaned in against the glass, more now. I shifted to the drawer, tugged it open with a hip bump. Two forks, one spoon, a pair of chopsticks somebody left at the Youth Center potluck, one bendy straw I kept saving for no reason. My old Nokia buzzed on the windowsill and slid two inches, screen lighting the condensation. Unknown number. I let it buzz out. The pan answered with a burst of oil. I turned the chicken again and pressed the lid for a minute to steam through.
I set Aaliyah’s plate down first—tiny pile of dirty rice, green beans cut small, a shred of chicken cooled on the edge. She drummed the tray again, impatience coursing her body, then stole a green bean and sucked salt off it before deciding it was food. Her laughter came easy tonight, a round sound with the same lift as a hymn. I tucked a paper towel into her collar as a bib and kissed that soft space at her cheek.
Thunder rolled. Not a crack yet—just a body shifting its weight somewhere above us. Lyon Crest weather always matched my mood. This season the rain had set in heavy. It was like God raining his wrath before he made his appearance on the Earth side again. The lights flickered once and held. I kept my hand near the dial just in case.
We ate at the little table by the window—her tray attached to the chair, my plate set on the floral vinyl. I blew on my bite, swallowed, tasted onion right where I wanted it. Aaliyah dropped a grain of rice on the tray, picked it back up, squinted, and stuck it on my wrist with sticky fingers. Personal art installation. I laughed.
“All right, Picasso.”
Out beyond the fogged glass, the block turned darker. Streetlights woke one by one, a dull amber, the rain catching on the halo before falling straight. A bus sighed at the corner and pulled back into its grind. Tires whispered on wet asphalt. The radio slid into an ad for a car wash and then back to music. I scraped my plate clean and raised the last bit of chicken skin to my mouth. Aaliyah clapped approval like I’d done something worth applause.
When she tossed the cup this time, it bounced once on the linoleum and spun under the oven. I crouched to fish it out and caught my reflection in the oven door—blurred by steam and streaks. Breath hitched. I reached up and wiped the glass with the towel.
I stood to grab it, but my mind wasn’t letting me free tonight. I leaned against the counter and caught my reflection in the darkened window. My wide hips pressing against the apron, my thick thighs shifting underneath my house shorts, my hazel eyes shining tired but still stubborn. This was me now. Not the girl who wore red dresses behind the clubhouse, but the woman whoran a home, who kept a child alive, who prayed when the sky split open.
“Come on,” I told myself, low enough that only God and the oven heard me. “Finish the night.”
I slid the cup back on the tray; Aaliyah reclaimed it with both hands and a grunt, victorious. Grease popped once like punctuation, then calmed. The rain answered with a steady drum.
I stood at the sink and turned the water to hot. Steam rose quick, and the lemon soap lifted a brightness into the air. I scrubbed the skillet with the brush I kept claiming I’d replace, then changed my mind because it knew this stove better than any new one would. The oven door caught my eye again. I looked and didn’t look away.
