Give Me My Daily Bread—No, Sorry, I Meant Rice

The place you occupy is out of my direct sight, hidden behind a corner—a corner that feels much like my thoughts: divided, fragmented, scattered like objects. You only come across my mind when there is need. You are reachable in the sense of reaching for an object on a shelf, just slightly beyond my comfortable reach, like standing on my toes and extending my arms high above my line of sight. You are there.

First, I feel you with confusion. Then, I take hold—a careful relief. This mindless ritual unfolds at night, as the day thins into hunger. Not always hunger for you. Yet you remain, indifferent to my neglect, constant in your nature as I falter in mine.

The first story I told of you earned her laugh: “You are describing a mother.” Perhaps I was. Between your perfection, your constancy, and most of all your forgiveness—and my failure to match it all —a ratio forms: one to one and a half. Occasionally it shifts to one to two. Like forgotten water on a stove, my shortcomings boil over. But your precision silences my intrusion.

A few short steps could close the distance. As I write, it is ten o’clock. I have not eaten all day. I know you wait—steady, patient, above me. Within reach, yet elevated, ready to rinse away what lingers, ready to overflow. My gestures cannot sway the scale. You decide in ways I will never grasp. I wonder: is your perfection the sin I pray for, unanswered, or simply another vessel of my longing—a relief that comes into being the moment I reach for you?

You fabricate virtue. You embody the sin I desire, the sin I did not inherit from him. Are you forgiving, or are you too indifferent? If I overflow, I disappear. If you overflow, a small compartment swallows the steam. If I overflow, I stumble closer to ruin. If you overflow, you recalibrate, delivering—again—your late-night perfection.