independence day

“Yes, honey, let’s watch them ice the cake,” I say while there’s something outside like an outbreak.

Cool winter air slips beneath my door with a bite as its greeting. I blow humid warmth into my palms with chattering teeth, rock back and forth to generate heat. Water bubbles in a rusted pot on the stove as the faucet drips with contamination onto piles of unwashed porcelain. It’s the Fourth of July, so I splurged on eggs last night. There were no lines in the grocery store, I noticed, carts left discarded half-empty in the aisle remotest. Bread bags and dinosaur nuggets were returned to their designated places by dull-eyed clerks with unbothered faces. I sit now on Grandad’s rocking chair with a full stomach as voices filter in along with the winter wind. Layers of languages are frantically spoken, some prouder than others, and some broken. I drown them out with The British Baking Show. Shouts now, skin-prickling pleas un-answered and car horns blaring in the distance half-frosted and—oh, they’re frosting a chocolate layered cake! “Momma,” My daughter pads into the living room barefoot and wide-eyed, clawing at her stuffed bear before tugging at my knotted hair. “Fireworks,” she quips. I pull her closer, further from the windows. “Yes, honey,” I say. “It’s Independence Day.” Her gaze wanders, inching towards the noise. Warnings seep in now like chants, doors slammed shut as the punctuation. Her brows knit together in a gesture of conflation. “ICE?” She queries. I turn her head to the television with vice until the glow’s consumed her greedy eyes. “Yes, honey, let’s watch them ice the cake,” I say while there’s something outside like an outbreak.