This I Knead

They took his tongue the day my father died. Declared it an act; a rite. Soon they called me daughter, my child, nnana-girl. But their hands, still, were not his. They didn't have scarred wrists from being pulled behind horse mounted militia. They had fingerprints; unlike his fingers rubbed smooth by tailor made hollows of sanctuary. They didn't know the bitterness of the hot, angry earth under a rubber sole stamped face. Theirs didn't have the shiny oblong mark from forbidden sticky hot caramel made one midnight to chase sorrow at a secret feast. Theirs didn't smell of camphor. Their didn't know where to rub out my sadness. Theirs didn't know the rhymes of the summer winds. I never got to hear my father's voice; just his words which felt blunted against their corn yellow smiles. They took my father's tongue and turned it into a letter opener. Of all the things in life I need, This I Knead. Share With Me.

“I’m alone” came his voice over the line. She scorched her tongue once more with the too sweet coffee. Energy seeped through both their ears while wine fueled cheer buzzed in the hallway. In the morning the maid sprayed carpet cleaner on the plum stains while the forensic team plucked markers off the walls.  “They could have helped him” rang a gravelled voice.  “If only.” she chimed; “Blood’s terrible on loop pile.” Of all the things in life I need, This I Knead. Share With Me.