Page 104 of Cackle

I stare at them. They’re delicate and pale. A grayish pink. They have a vague shine.

I wonder now, in the elastic minutes I spend studying these bones, who gets to decide what’s beautiful.

Before tonight, I probably would have said that chicken bones were grisly, unsightly things. I would have thrown them right in the garbage without a second thought. But why? What’s ugly about these parts?

This bird fed me. I should cherish its bones.

I fed me. I should cherish myself.

I clamp my eyes shut. My fingers curl in tight, my hands embracing like long-lost friends. I focus. I breathe in. That golden scent of butter, of citrus and rosemary. The warmth of it all nuzzles against me.

There’s a contentment I’ve never known brewing within me. I can feel it, its gentle swell.

Surrender, a voice says.

Sophie says. I say.

It glides through me with slick fins. Down to my toes. Up, in the narrow canals of my ears. But when it gets to my chest, something happens. My nerves rupture, and they drown it. It drowns.

I open my eyes.

I open them to a tall tower of chicken bones floating above my plate.

I gasp, and they fall. There’re more of them now, so many, and they rain down on me. I push myself away from the table. Ralph takes cover under the ramekin, a makeshift fort.

Maybe it lasts only a few seconds, but it feels like longer. It stops eventually.

There are chicken bones scattered all over the dining room. On the table, on the floor.

“I think it’s safe now,” I tell Ralph.

He emerges cautiously.

“I don’t know what happened,” I say.

He shakes his head. He doesn’t know, either.

“Well,” I say, looking down at all the bones, “I guess I’m magic!”

I start to laugh.

“I’m fucking magic! I can’t . . . I mean, I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I just did that. I made that happen. Don’t know how, but I did. Me! Can you believe it?” I ask Ralph.

Of course he can.

I decide to save the chicken bones.

I gather them all and put them in a pot with water, along with my final lemon sliced thin, some rosemary and salt. The Internet says to boil, so I boil. Then I reduce to a simmer and let the pot sit while I work on lesson plans, while I brush my teeth and wash my face. While I tuck Ralph into bed. While I tuck myself into bed.

I lie on my back, facing the ceiling, trying to breathe out my lingering adrenaline so I can sleep.

I choose not to fixate on my failings, because maybe I’m not any closer to having control over whatever it is, whatever I’m capable of. But I know that I’m capable.

I didn’t always know that.

I flip over onto my stomach. I smile into my pillow.

In the morning, I wake up to bone broth.