Bowl

by Gabriella Brand

Melissa cut her hair, preemptively. The bathroom floor looked like two gray cats had been fighting, tearing out each other’s fur. The cut hair curled around the base of the toilet and stuck to the porcelain. She would clean it later. Or maybe not.

When she looked in the mirror, she told herself not to cry. It was better this way, rather than waiting for the portal, and the drip, and the nausea. 

When John came home, he stared at Melissa in the same way he had when she had told him she was pregnant, thirty years before. As if an asteroid had hit the earth. But, once again, he regained his composure and once again, he said, “Hmmm… that’s amazing.”

He did not tell her that she looked pretty, because she didn’t. And John was nothing if not honest. 

He did not tell her that it would grow back, as he had once told their toddler who had gotten adventurous with scissors.

He did not tell Melissa that he loved her just as she was, because she already knew.
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But he said nothing of real comfort, either.

The person who made her feel a little better was an acquaintance in her book group.

“You look like Pema Chodron, you know, the nun?”

Melissa nodded and ran her fingers over her stubble, suddenly feeling more tender towards herself. More charitable. More inclined to breathe.

She wondered if Pema Chodron had ever been a mendicant, wandering around asking for alms. Probably not.

She had heard that the traditional Buddhist way to beg was to just wait. Not ask. Not plead. Not bargain. Not cajole. Not pray. Just wait.

So when no one was looking, she made the shape of a bowl with her fingers and began waiting.


* * *

Gabriella Brand’s fiction, poetry and essays have appeared in such publications as The Citron Review, Vita Poetica, Shiuli (India) and Room. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee. Gabriella teaches French and writing in the OLLI program at the University of Connecticut. 

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