A Polish nanny who didn't know English, the first to see through my secret hidden in the food.-16
Vocabulary Grows
Marta pronounces a new word slowly at her phone screen. I understand. Write its Polish equivalent in my notebook. She asks how I feel today. "Better," I say. Nod. Then points out the window, says a word. Sunlight streams outside. I repeat the word. She says another word, points to the calendar on the wall showing clouds and raindrops.
I mimic her. Picking up the new white pill bottle. "Medicine," I teach her. She looks at the bottle. Repeats it. "Morning take?" she asks. "Yes, morning." "Night sleep now," she states. "I hope," I reply. She repeats "hope." We fall silent for a few seconds, looking at each other, identical expressions on our faces. Then I resume writing words; she resumes looking at her phone. On the page, my Polish vocabulary expands.
One Hundred Days Clear
Today marks one hundred days without sleeping pills. A small 'X' on the calendar. Marta wipes the kitchen counter. Hums a tune. She always hums this while wiping. I walk over, sit down. Silent. Her arm moves back and forth, cloth circling on the countertop.
Wiped areas shine, reflecting the window's blurry white light. Her movements steady, rhythmic as breath. I listen to the melody. Hand rests on the dining table – doesn't tremble. Heartbeat beneath my ribs, steady. One hundred days. Once seemed impossible. Now it's just today. Marta finishes a verse. Turns. Sees me watching. Smiles. The smile reaches her eyes. "Today. Good day," she says. "Yes. Good day," I reply. "Continue," she says. She continues wiping. Continues humming. I continue sitting. Continue breathing. The days continue.
Marta pronounces a new word slowly at her phone screen. I understand. Write its Polish equivalent in my notebook. She asks how I feel today. "Better," I say. Nod. Then points out the window, says a word. Sunlight streams outside. I repeat the word. She says another word, points to the calendar on the wall showing clouds and raindrops.
I mimic her. Picking up the new white pill bottle. "Medicine," I teach her. She looks at the bottle. Repeats it. "Morning take?" she asks. "Yes, morning." "Night sleep now," she states. "I hope," I reply. She repeats "hope." We fall silent for a few seconds, looking at each other, identical expressions on our faces. Then I resume writing words; she resumes looking at her phone. On the page, my Polish vocabulary expands.
One Hundred Days Clear
Today marks one hundred days without sleeping pills. A small 'X' on the calendar. Marta wipes the kitchen counter. Hums a tune. She always hums this while wiping. I walk over, sit down. Silent. Her arm moves back and forth, cloth circling on the countertop.
Wiped areas shine, reflecting the window's blurry white light. Her movements steady, rhythmic as breath. I listen to the melody. Hand rests on the dining table – doesn't tremble. Heartbeat beneath my ribs, steady. One hundred days. Once seemed impossible. Now it's just today. Marta finishes a verse. Turns. Sees me watching. Smiles. The smile reaches her eyes. "Today. Good day," she says. "Yes. Good day," I reply. "Continue," she says. She continues wiping. Continues humming. I continue sitting. Continue breathing. The days continue.