Bone and Bread by Saleema Nawaz Page A

breaking down again, just as she clinked her empty bowl into the sink.
    We learned a lot about her in those weeks, about her father the pig farmer, her brother who was in the navy but wished he could be a pilot, her mother who taught piano to all the children in the neighbourhood. She talked and talked, and her voice became a thread that was pulling us along. It was nice to have her there, filling up the silence. We did not stop to wonder why her heart went out to us in our trouble, for to us our trouble was the whole world. It was only puzzling that the rest of the world was not there with us.
    She slept in Mama’s room, and we slept in there too, taking turns next to her and on a pallet on the floor piled with blankets. She breathed through her mouth while she slept, and I liked the windy sound of it, loud and even. In the night, she kicked off all the sheets and it was cold with the breeze from the window she kept open, but Sadhana and I didn’t complain or give up our turns in the bed. We stayed up later and later, until it was normal for us to be waking up around noon. Sometimes Deana left while we were still asleep and went home to see her boyfriend Freddy, and then she would come back with another bag of clothes or a bunch of new records to play.
    There was nothing to do, after the funeral. Deana and the other ladies divvied up Mama’s yoga classes and cancelled some. Uncle still ran the store, like always. It was summer, so there was no school.
    I was getting better at frying eggs. We ate a lot of fried-egg sandwiches. Sadhana took to heating up beans from a can and frying bologna that we dipped in mustard, small suns of yellow squirted on our flowered plates. I don’t know where we got the idea to eat that way, as Mama’s way of cooking had always leaned to whole grains and stews and lots of vegetables, but Deana seemed to think it was fine. When she cooked, she made spicy spaghetti or fish sticks. We ate a lot of bagels from the store, since they were free. My stomach started hurting most of the time, but Deana told me it was only because I was sad. In between telling stories and playing records, she seemed almost as tired and sorrowful as we were.
    She got the idea one Friday night, from looking at Mama’s box of candles, that we’d have a candlelight dinner. She’d found them in the cupboard when she was looking for clean towels. “Candlelight makes everything look better,” said Deana. “Even food.”
    I was all for it, but Sadhana disapproved. She traced her fingers over the lid of the box, covered with lilac paper doilies and curling silver ribbons. A strange remnant of our crafty years, but canny enough to be obviously Mama’s handiwork. Sadhana reminded me that we weren’t allowed to touch the candles.
    â€œI’m sure that was just for safety reasons, honey,” said Deana, who was listening. “It’ll be okay.”
    Sadhana shook her head. “No, it’s not just that. These were our mother’s meditation candles.”
    â€œReally?” Deana pried the top off the box. Inside was a jumble of white tea lights, tapers of every colour, and pillar candles in gradient shades of dark purple.
    â€œLovely,” said Deana.
    â€œShe made those ones.” Sadhana pointed.
    Deana reached past the candles she’d indicated and took out two of the tall orange tapers. “These two will be perfect. Don’t you think?” She was asking Sadhana, who nodded. Deana took them, and Sadhana carried the box to our room and shoved it under her bed. I followed her.
    â€œThey need to stay in a cool, dry place,” she said when she turned and saw me looking. “They’ll melt otherwise.”
    â€œI thought you didn’t believe in meditation.”
    â€œThat’s not the point.” Sadhana looked ready for a fight, but I didn’t press it. She could get fierce about loyalties, and anyway, I knew how she