A Polish nanny who didn't know English, the first to see through my secret hidden in the food.-15
New Medication
The new pills arrive. Small, bright yellow, oval. Instructions: one with breakfast. Place the bottle directly on the living room table. No hiding in drawers. Marta sees it when she comes in. Stops dusting the table. Picks it up. Holds it to the light. Squints at the label, likely recognizing a few English medical terms. Studies it a while. Sets it gently back down. Says nothing. Just gives a single nod. From that day, things shifted. The blue mug reappeared in the cupboard, lined up with the others. Marta started loading it into the dishwasher, washed with everything else. No more mint leaves simmering in pots on the stove. The ever-present Polish herb book vanished from the dining table. Everything seemed to slide back into place.
Slow Mornings
I stopped dissolving little pills in my coffee or dinner. Nights in bed. Awake. Thoughts spin in my head. Come. Go. I don't try to stop them. Let them turn. Sometimes lying awake over an hour before sleep comes. Sleep isn't deep; a noise can wake me. But I wake naturally, not jarred by the hollow crash when drug effects wear off. Morning rising, head clear. That's good. But body heavy. Tired. Need coffee. Need it badly. Now, one cup and my hands truly stop shaking. Can lift the cup steadily. Fork doesn't clatter on the plate edge while eating. And I feel hunger. Proper, gnawing emptiness in my stomach. Growling. A sensation absent for so long.
Her Tea
Marta brews me a cup of tea each afternoon. Tea brought from Poland. Herbal. Uses a metal infuser. Steeps three minutes in hot water. Hands me the cup. An ordinary cup. Not the blue mug. Inhale the steam. Scent is grassy, faintly bitter. "What plant is this?" "Polish name. Hard say." "Thank you." The tea is bitter, but leaves a sweet aftertaste. After drinking, warmth spreads through my stomach. A diffusing warmth. Not the forced heat of drugs. Gentle. "One cup every day." Nod. Next day, same time: tea prepared. Now each afternoon, the kettle whistles. She tears the packet. Times three minutes. Slides the cup across. I drink. Stomach warm for twenty minutes. We don't discuss the plant again.
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The new pills arrive. Small, bright yellow, oval. Instructions: one with breakfast. Place the bottle directly on the living room table. No hiding in drawers. Marta sees it when she comes in. Stops dusting the table. Picks it up. Holds it to the light. Squints at the label, likely recognizing a few English medical terms. Studies it a while. Sets it gently back down. Says nothing. Just gives a single nod. From that day, things shifted. The blue mug reappeared in the cupboard, lined up with the others. Marta started loading it into the dishwasher, washed with everything else. No more mint leaves simmering in pots on the stove. The ever-present Polish herb book vanished from the dining table. Everything seemed to slide back into place.
Slow Mornings
I stopped dissolving little pills in my coffee or dinner. Nights in bed. Awake. Thoughts spin in my head. Come. Go. I don't try to stop them. Let them turn. Sometimes lying awake over an hour before sleep comes. Sleep isn't deep; a noise can wake me. But I wake naturally, not jarred by the hollow crash when drug effects wear off. Morning rising, head clear. That's good. But body heavy. Tired. Need coffee. Need it badly. Now, one cup and my hands truly stop shaking. Can lift the cup steadily. Fork doesn't clatter on the plate edge while eating. And I feel hunger. Proper, gnawing emptiness in my stomach. Growling. A sensation absent for so long.
Her Tea
Marta brews me a cup of tea each afternoon. Tea brought from Poland. Herbal. Uses a metal infuser. Steeps three minutes in hot water. Hands me the cup. An ordinary cup. Not the blue mug. Inhale the steam. Scent is grassy, faintly bitter. "What plant is this?" "Polish name. Hard say." "Thank you." The tea is bitter, but leaves a sweet aftertaste. After drinking, warmth spreads through my stomach. A diffusing warmth. Not the forced heat of drugs. Gentle. "One cup every day." Nod. Next day, same time: tea prepared. Now each afternoon, the kettle whistles. She tears the packet. Times three minutes. Slides the cup across. I drink. Stomach warm for twenty minutes. We don't discuss the plant again.
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