MOKITA Sylvie Adams
Bergen County Academies
It’s an apartment of oddly cut corners and figurines silenced to knick-knacks. Bodies walking through the landscape of collectibles and objects left-behind hear the faint whisper of dust. In the midst of spoken words and ones only whispered, a mother and daughter sit in a breakfast nook in companionable quiet. Mia, the daughter, reads a book about Papua New Guinea. Raina, the mother, reads the paper from two days ago. A heat has settled in, sticky and quiet (much like the small family it clings to now). A dribble of sweat emerges from the groin of Mia’s index and middle fingers. It slides slowly down her carefully painted bubble gum nails, leaving a mild sheen on the skin it touches. It slightly dampens the pages Mia thumbs through as she tries to find the chapter she left off on. Raina stares blearily and unfocused at a story about a local soccer team, breaths slowly becoming light snores as she nods off. Mia snorts happily when she takes note of her mother’s tipped back head and slumped figure. She good-naturedly files away the unfortunate tenor of Raina’s snores, triumphant that while she had not inherited her mother’s ever cool and crisp skin, she had managed to skirt the rather inelegant habit. Mia returns to her reading, laughter echoing quietly in her bones. The light continues to wane as night attempts to sweep away day. Mia will soon begin dinner, a chore that she enjoys executing for her mother, who otherwise has nothing done for her. Yet… she finds herself far from the tasks of her evening as she comes across a word–a word she swears she has heard before. It reminds her of dancing, of two partners in competition even as they wrap their limbs around the other and step in beat to the music. An unbidden memory of a third figure sitting in the nook sails through her mind, bringing tears to her eyes as she recalls that there was once another person reading next to her. She can see it–mother, father, and daughter enjoying each other in the coming twilight. When Mia was still too small to read herself, her father would hoist her onto his lap and tell her stories about the world. He loved learning languages and often told Mia and her mother that had he gone to college, he would have been an excellent academic. Yet, grimy with dirt and liquified rust, he would always tell the other members of the nook that the wonders of the world did not compare to them. Raina would smile and kiss his dirty cheek.
Short Story
Mia would ask for another story. He knew many of them, having read his whole life about lands he never expected to walk upon. Mia rises from her seat, young bones creaking like the improperly placed floorboards of her apartment. She sets about preparing dinner, concocting a mess of spices and vegetables. The recipe comes unprompted. It's from a distant memory, a nearly forgotten cooking lesson given under a shroud of colorful curtains and the songs of muted cardinals. Mia faintly recalls that morning now, happy to see her parents dancing around her. She tries to remember the lines of her father’s face, her imagination failing to render a completely familiar image. He appears stilted and awkward like an unfinished sculpture. Mia swallows the memory. The rush of paper into the mailbox brings Mia running to the door. She picks apart the bundle of letters to find a single shining correspondence from the state university. It is the only packet in the bunch–thick and colorful. She recalls the fortune in receiving a packet, probably full of freshmen orientation information and congratulations. She sets it carefully on the counter, resolving to celebrate after dinner is finished. A lovely smell fills the space, sprinkling flavor onto the air as an invisible hand taps Raina on the shoulder and awakens her senses. The beautiful woman, aged but shining, awakens to the lovely image of her daughter in their kitchen. She watches her Mia carefully oil the vegetables and delicately distribute red pepper flakes. Mia smiles at her mother sweetly. Raina, spotting the mail on the counter, goes to rifle through it. She finds bills and more bills and then a letter from her brother. And then something else. She lifts up the packet, examining a vaguely familiar photo of a university mascot. Raina quietly glares at it and sets the mail down. Her daughter watches from the corner of her eyes, examining the quickened breaths that rapidly work to expand Raina’s delicate neck. Mia disappointedly looks away as her mother sits down, once again in the nook, without a word. Mia distributes plates and utensils and then initial helpings for both of them. Her mother munches quietly. She rises from the table after finishing, thanks her daughter for a lovely meal, and goes to her room. Mia hears the quiet crunch of sheets and quilts as her mother cocoons herself. She stops eating, uncomfortable with the famil-
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