Fold and Fondle

Fold and fondle, my mother instructs me. Don’t think, just fold, fondle.
We are dealing with raw meat, but she will not tell me what sort. I have a suspicion that it is my father.
He’s been gone a long time, but his car’s still here, and so’s most everything he owns. Except his body.
Lift, she says, then pat back down. I watch her hands kneading. Sweat falls down her face. She’s deep in concentration.
We prepare a lot of meat lately. There’s a lot of meat to be prepared. I watch her body slide to the end of the counter and pick up the cheese plate, funnel the cheese into the meat. Fold and fondle. She can add all the toppings she wants, but it still tastes like him. Like life gone sour.
Now pick it up, my mother tells me. Pick it up, and put it in the casserole dish.
My hands cradle the meat, smoothing its contours. He’s so soft, I say out loud.
Into the casserole dish, she says, motions. Slowly, slowly, now drop.
I drop Dad into the dish. At least this way, he’ll feed us, be useful. As we put him in the oven, I wonder how long it’ll be before my mother realizes I’m useless, how long before she cooks me. I’ll taste like her, like imitation, like flavors nearly real, but not.
Look at me! I want to scream, but she looks only at the oven, at Dad, bubbling, sweating, all the moisture leaving him. I want to cry, but I’m too hungry.

***

Skyler Melnick is an MFA candidate for fiction at Columbia University. She writes about sisters playing catch with their grandfather’s skull, boarding schools of murderous children, headless towns, and mildewing mothers. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, Gone Lawn, Night Picnic, Moon City Review, and more.