how to make a mother's grief

Yield: at least 1 ruined harvest

Difficulty: Impossible to master without...

Prep time: Longer than a season, shorter than a myth.

Do not rush this.

Ingredients:

• 1 field of late-summer wheat, already wilting.
• The shadow of a girl descending
• A pinch of rain withheld.
• Contents of a sealed jar labeled "Do Not Open"
• A mother's tongue, bitten.
• A handful of pomegranate seeds you will not look at directly.

Instructions:

1. Begin at dawn. Grief rises best in low light, preferring an uncluttered altar.

2. Knead the wheat until your palms shine. Until it powders. Until it looks like the dust of something once alive. Pretend the ache is holy.

3. Pour in the shadow carefully. Avoid eye contact with whatever it casts.

4. Add the rain, slowly. Not enough to soften, just enough to blur.

5. Fold in the silence of an empty threshold. If it clumps, that means you're doing it right.

6. Stir counter-clockwise. Avoid thoughts that redden the bowl. If you hear footsteps below the earth—ignore them.

*

There should be another step here.

Something about maidenhood, wildflowers, carefree innocence.

The page is torn, the margins go quiet.

You turn away, rearrange the bowls with shaking hands.

Skip ahead...

*

8. Shake the jar. Listen with both your ears. If something knocks back, do not respond.

9. Let rest for three months. Nothing will rise.

10. Bake until the crust darkens, until it smells like the echo of a name whispered on the wind.

11. Store in the heart.

Shelf life: Eternal.