by Patricia Fuentes Burns
Wake early. Let it be dark in winter, let the birds be mute in summer.
Reheat the coffee twice and catch the microwave before it makes a sound. This is your time, don’t wake the others. Quietly let the dog out, prepare more coffee, empty the dishwasher. Make a game of it.
In 2027, GRACE & GRAVITY will be edited and published by the Washington Writers’ Publishing House. Submissions for Volume 12: Grace in Justice are open through November 15th.
Pretend the pastry you crave was touched by dirty hands. Imagine greasy foods are fried in Vaseline and all meat is rancid. Eat mostly plants, the rainbow, never out of boxes. Remember, your stomach is only the size of a bowl made with your own two hands.
To everything you use, say thank you. To the soap at the sink, thank you. To the dish towel in the kitchen, thank you. To the door, to the glass, to the salt, thank you, thank you, thank you.
Wear a dress the color of your skin, sleeveless and to the knee. Paint your nails blush and balance yourself in shoes that flatter your legs. In the office, smile at your juniors while your seniors watch. Join meetings and listen, take notes, every ten minutes look up as if to speak, then don’t. You know your voice does not carry.
During breaks, drink water or tea. Breathe deeply while the water runs to cool or simmers to hot. Drink the cold water fast or blow on your tea before sipping slowly. If you scald your tongue, the strange roughness of it will be with you all day. If you’re thirsty, it’s already too late.
Could you lift yourself over the ledge of a window if it came to that? Could you outrun a man or carry your hurt child or perform CPR for any longer than a minute? Could you climb your way up a tree to safety? Train for several years if you want to be ready when the moment comes.
Look at the people in your life with soft eyes, sending them warmth and kindness. Truly, this one small change in you will make a difference in others without them doing a thing.
If there is something you love, make it yours in tiny ways. Keep your desires small and you will want for nothing. Doodling makes you an artist. Walking the dog is an adventure. Writing a sympathy card becomes your life’s work.
Hold your breath when checking the bank account, relief washing over you if the number is big, worry settling in your stomach when it’s small. There is always something—an achy tooth or a strange sound coming from the car, the washing machine, the inside of your dog’s chest.
Listen to understand, not to respond. Ask questions, show interest, for every minute you speak let others talk twice as long. There will be days when you say very little. This is fine, you know your own stories.
What would your perfect day be? Would you have a massage in the morning and a restaurant meal alone? Would you drive to the mountains and hike until the sun sets? Dream big! But not too big. Would you sleep, would you work for free, would you laugh until you cried? It’s only one day, choose wisely.
On movie night, let your family discuss how long is too long. Is violence preferable to sex or the other way around? Sit still while they argue about where to sit on the couch large enough for two families. Let your husband pick the seat on the other end.
Let go of what tethers you to old plans—the tapered candles, the desk, the empty scrapbooks, the delicate panties. Embrace your blank walls, leave every drawer and shelf half empty, keep only one of each thing. Open the windows and fill your home with fewer, better things.
Plan your own party. You’ll never be surprised, but you’ll never be surprised. Remember the friend who laid out a tray with her favorite chocolate croissant and a pink rose for her family to bring to her on Mother’s Day morning. The way she got exactly what she liked every time.
On occasion, announce that you have no appetite. Maybe you’re coming down with something, maybe you slept poorly last night. Get into bed fully clothed. Let your husband close the bedroom door to keep the children and the dog away. Let him fall asleep on the couch, giving you your own bedroom for the night, something you haven’t had since childhood.
Your habits decide your future. What you aren’t changing, you’re choosing. Discipline is remembering what you want. What you do with your time becomes your day. Your days become your life. You’ve forgotten all the prayers, but you know many quotes about how to live. They come to you at dusk when there are still a few hours left to do the next right thing.
As the day comes to an end, tie up its loose ends. Leave nothing in the sink. Scour the house for trash. Walk aimlessly to add steps until the total is a nice, round number. Wash your face with warm water and oil. Set out tomorrow’s clothes. Update your lists. Finish what future you will thank you for.
When you drop into bed at night, only bring your clean, tired self. Your mind is calm, your body strong, you are hydrated. Dim your lamps or turn them off. If there’s a full moon, use its glow to see where your hands should go. After, get up from bed to draw the blackout curtains tight against the light, even if it means feeling your way back blind.
Patricia Fuentes Burns has published fiction in TriQuarterly, Quarter After Eight, Another Chicago Magazine, Jellyfish Review, and Quarterly West, among other journals. Her work has been anthologized in Grace in Darkness and Shut Down Strangers & Hot Rod Angels. She has an MFA from George Mason University and lives in Arlington, Virginia, with her husband and three daughters.
