Food For Thought Haley Pate
I am a piece of red velvet cake, I am a small part of the whole dessert. As a family, my siblings and I were poured from our box into a bowl. Mixed with butter, milk, and a few eggs. We were laid in a greased pan and popped into the oven. Baking at 98° for nine long months. When the timer finally dinged and signaled that we were done, we were abruptly pulled from the oven and brought into the cold world. We were sliced apart with a knife and now we stand; together yet separate. Cooling on a rack. *** Alabama nights are warm and wet. The heat wraps around you, like you’re standing there in every jacket you own. Every afternoon I walk outside and watch the stars rise as the sun falls. I watch like a mother seeing their kid off to the bus stop. I know that they will get there with or without me, but I stay anyway. When the last rays of light disappear, I stand alone in darkness. Just a figure cast against the stars’ twinkling light. I walk outside my backyard’s gate and out into the woods. I am always nervous. My fingers twist a strand of my hair. My hair is short now, curled and blonde at the ends. The strands are twisting like vines, curled and yellow at the tips like honeysuckle blooms. There is not much space between my house and my neighbor’s. The woods provide a thin barrier between our two yards. I maneuver myself through the trees and find myself standing at the orange fence surrounding their garden. The fence comes up to my chest, I can see clearly over it. My neighbor’s garden is always lit up by giant spotlights, like he’s afraid someone will steal his vegetables. He has a right to be, seeing as I am near. I often crave a snack on these nighttime ventures. He grows tomatoes on tall towers and carrots in thin rows. They’re surrounded by bushels of flowers. I don’t know the names of them. Their colors are vivid in the spotlight’s harsh beam. Tonight I am a tomato thief. I hop his fence and pluck one off of its vine. I stand there for a moment, holding the red fleshy object in my hands like an egg. It is soft and shiny. I feel exposed, alone in a spotlight while everything around me is dark. *** I sit here still, sixteen years later. Stale, cold cake. Sugar still present but dulled and sunken to the bottom. Ants nibble on my sides, rats sniff at my frosting hair. I am surprised I haven’t rotted away or been eaten by a passing animal or some person with
70