NONFICTION
TOBI ALFIER
SMALL KINDNESSES
She has always been a singer. First Soprano in school chorus. Anything at all in church. Now she sings hymns as she bakes, threading the heavenly through flour, egg, a pinch of all the things she learned from her mother. Savory. Sweet. Just the same as she is. The same as her mother was, minus the bitter. Egg wash to close the edges and make the top shiny. Welcome to all, and hello.
When her man deployed to somewhere unknown or unsaid, she gave him a container of baked goods without suspicious names—no rugelach, Turkish Delight, or even tamale’s—she knew how to make them and she would, when he came home. She wanted the package to help him join hands with his fellow men, like boulders in a racing river she wanted them to have his back to the other side, then bring him home. Now she’s baking for his family to let them know she hasn’t
forgotten any of them. Not a single soul, especially the babies.
Winter’s onset, she will meet a blizzard in the morning on the way to the store. Cold and sad, trees punctuate the distance beyond the distance. She travels through leftover trash from last night’s Christmas market, hurried up to close before the weather changed. A breeze shudders through her open jacket. She’s lonely as Atlantis. Small tasks. Small kindnesses. A dozen eggs, olive oil, Liege sugar. Nothing suspicious. She checks the mail. She checks the sky. Her life feels
frozen in place like icicles hanging from eaves. The hymns she sang while baking now come to her voice again—rising like constellations no one bothered to name—they’ll be stars of lessened light come the end of winter, as will she.
Tobi Alfier’s credits include Arkansas Review, The American Journal of Poetry, Cholla Needles, Gargoyle, James Dickey Review, Louisiana Literature, Permafrost, and Washington Square Review. She is co-editor of San Pedro River Review (www.bluehorsepress.com).
