These Small Threads


The afternoon light shone through our kitchen window to reflect off the oil-stained aluminum foil that covers the wall behind the silver gas stove. I leaned against our concrete counter-tops and carefully tried to cut tomatoes with the one knife we owned, the knife that just couldn’t quite cut through the skin and ended up with me holding mashed tomato chunks with an apology held in my eyes for my lack of elegance. My host mother, Carmita, smiled at me as she swiftly and expertly put a mixture of herbs and vegetables into a large pot simmering on the stove. A small cry directed our eyes from her cooking and my awkward eagerness to learn and onto our floor where a small (still afraid of me) baby crawled. Carmita reached toward Anthony and as she soothed him said, I didn’t even need to see your name tag when you arrived. I just knew you were ours.” The familiar warm glow of happiness spread throughout my body and resonated in my chest. I simply smiled and hoped that