Burning

The woman’s hand grasps at the metal handle of the pan, making an erratic shifting motion so that all the veggies can brown. She holds the weight of her protruding abdomen with her free hand as a bead of sweat runs down her flushed cheek. Anxious to get out of the steamy kitchen, she shuffles over to the couch, dodging the laundry, and sits on the indented cushion with a heavy sigh. She flexes her feet forward and they creak with relief as she traces circles around the peak of her belly. She knocks away the grimey bowls and stacks of People magazines on her coffee table to make way for her heels to rest.

     Within this leisure, that familiar queasy feeling of inadequacy clasps its fingers around her neck. She inspects the unfinished crib pieces scattered along the floor, with towers of dishes and mounds of clothes sprinkled around. She can’t shake the notion that she’s bound to be an unfit mother in a home overflowing with clutter.

     The bitter smell of burning snaps her out of her hazy worry, and she leaps up as fast as her aching body allows to tend to the charred remains.