In the sanctuary of my mattress’s firm foundation, I knelt on silk-covered pillows to whisper desperate prayers for deliverance, prayers of surrender. For three months, I drifted in and out of sleep, often awakened by the sound of a distant bell, a sound so familiar that not even the dogs stirred. Their warm bodies remained curled in communion with my cold feet. Only the altar boy would rise with the alarm. He would return at sundown to feed the dogs and sit vigil by my side.
Every Tuesday, I met online with the therapist, not the kind of man to offer a soft landing for depressive episodes. He recited the same verses on autopilot. You will never get better lying in that bed. The monotone of his words leaked through the laptop like lyrics in a worn hymnal. I knew the words by heart, but I could never hear the melody. He would ask about the uneaten sandwich on my nightstand.
It’s manna from heaven, I told him. Every day it magically appeared. Every night while I slept, the discarded bones of bread were whisked away by an altar boy whose face was painfully familiar.
The therapist’s face was stone, carved with an unchanging expression that said Just get out of bed! Eat something!
I can’t. Not today. I told him how I pictured myself spreading out a blanket, picnicking in the middle of a cemetery. These confessions went unforgiven. I tried to explain how it felt to labor through the daily rituals and sacrifices that major depression demanded. Another confession unabsolved.
One night, I was visited by a spirit of hope. It entered through a shuttered window. Its presence lifted the shadows, and for the first time in months, I turned my face to the warmth of the evening sun. Light pierced the fabric of my thin quilt, and I watched in wonder as a patchwork of color danced on the ceiling like prisms in stained glass. I thought of the altar boy, the man I once married in a fragrant garden of gardenias and white jasmine. I missed him. Lying prostrate on cool sheets, I whispered one last prayer. It was this prayer of gratitude that lifted me on angel’s wings, planted my bare feet on cold tile, carried my resurrected body to the kitchen where the altar boy was eating alone.
I slipped in beside him and reached for a fork. With bowed heads, we lit a candle and spoke a blessing over the food. The angels rejoiced when I took the first bite.
INSTANT NOODLES 