My Cardboard Balcony

I Ate An Apricot by Belinda Roddie I ate an apricot and fell asleep on the couch in the living room, and she found me snoring and drooling. She said, "Keep at it, and you'll be your own symphony and serenade the neighborhood." I laughed in my drowsy stupor and let her pull me off the sofa as if from a raft against the shore. She served me something cold to drink and something hot to eat. I shared another apricot with her, the sweet flavor giving me energy when paired with wine from the refrigerator. Heat radiated off her face, and I knew she had planned out this little rendezvous.

I remembered the smell of incense from my days as a good Catholic girl. The altar server would saunter down the aisle, a limp in his step, and swing the burning bowl about on its chain. My mom would complain, sometimes loudly, about the odor, though not in a verbal way; she would wrinkle her nose and cough just so the priest could give her a look, and she would smile sweetly as if she had done nothing to perturb the Mass at all.