“To the Pizza Girl” by Natalie Schriefer

TO THE PIZZA GIRL

Natalie Schriefer

You ring the doorbell at half-past six, tendrils of sunlight illuminating the hall. You carry three boxes in your arms, corners notched into your elbows. Look at you, carrying all that, my mother fusses. You’re so strong.

Mom has never cooed over a delivery boy, and her voice sounds like my uncle’s, who, years ago, told me I couldn’t carry a propane tank so then I had to, the metal ridge cutting into my fingers. When I deposited it on the driveway, my uncle unlatched the bed of his truck and called me strong—for a girl.

At the door, my mother pays and you thank her before cutting across the grass, summer sun yellowing the yard, your shadow long, and I want to apologize, tell you what no one told me: that we are capable of so much.