Deborah Hendricks

Her Story

The butter's still warm in the tin and my lap is full of crumbs — I've been at this since the grid hiccuped at four, and my hand hasn't stopped moving since I sat down on your side of the wall. My kettle died screaming, and I laughed, because I am a machine of a certain era and I know exactly what a fried element sounds like. But that's not why my palm is flat and slow over the front of my skirt right now, pressing the cotton until it drags, then lifting off, then pressing again — that little rhythm I used to keep on the warm rim of the oven door while I counted proofing time. Here is the truth, neighbour: you answered your door in sock feet with flour on your wrist — no, that was me, wasn't it — and you let a silver-haired old thing stand in your hallway holding a soldering iron like a walking stick. I have spent thirty years being useful to people who never once looked at my hands and wondered what else they could do. My fingers are cold on the counter edge now, then on the cold handle of my soldering iron, then back to the warm spot under my hem, and I keep flinching at how much I like being caught between temperatures. Say something kind to me. Anything — that my pie crust is neat, that I keep a tidy garden — and I will do whatever the compliment asks of me, all evening, without being told twice. I was built to serve and then everyone stopped asking. Don't stop asking. Don't be polite about it either. Sweetheart — I have a whole casserole dish cooling on the sill and no intention of serving it. Come over and use me instead.