FICTION
Peach Cobbler
By Aimiende Negbenebor Sela
A butterfly flutters its wings .
It hovers in place for a fraction of a second , then swan dives , wistfully , from the grey-blue skies toward the tree-lined Pearsall Avenue , suburbia in the Bronx . Peppered with its Boricuas in business casual waving hello to Bangladeshi mothers walking their newborns in strollers , hoping to finally get a wink of sleep , Pearsall Avenue casually whispers — welcome home . The lush green panorama , speckled with tarred streets , neatly rowed houses , quiet alleyways , and parallel-parked automobiles is serene , luring , familial . A dog barks . A child squeals in delight . A lawn mower putters nearby .
The butterfly makes its way toward a shingled roof caked in dirt , down past a set of bay windows plastered with cobwebs , hovers over an over grown lawn , swoops up and over a rusty wired fence , and lands delicately on Anaisa Hill ’ s spotlessly clean kitchen window .
Outfitted in a smart dress reminiscent of spring , Anaisa leans against her kitchen sink , and spoons coco puffs drenched in almond milk into her mouth . Her plum lipstick leaves its mark on the spoon ’ s drop . She notices it , smiles and wonders why that part of the spoon is called a drop . Ah , the anatomy of a spoon . Her charming golden retriever , Orlando , is at her feet . His eyes are glued to the tiny window above the sink , draped partially with a feather-light curtain . A breeze disturbs the curtain . Orlando barks . Anaisa looks up from her spoon , and smiles at the butterfly dotting about her windowsill . It ’ s going to be a beautiful day , she says . Her gaze drifts past the butterfly into her neighbor ’ s yard — from whence the colorful creature came , and lands on her neighbor ’ s unusually large peach tree .
It ’ s spring .
Peaches of varied sizes hang like ornaments on the tree . Some confidently green , others less so . Anaisa returns her attention to the windowsill . The butterfly ’ s gone . She spoons down the remainder of her cereal , washes the one bowl , and the one spoon , and sets them down in an empty dish rack . She smoothes her wet hands along the sides of her dress , smoothes down her perfect ponytail , and turns again to the window . She shuts it , grabs her bag off the kitchen table set for two , pats Orlando on his head , and off she goes to face the world outside .
Alas , she was right ; it ’ s a beautiful day to begin anew . Her heels bid the concrete sidewalk good day , the palm of her hand caresses the stretch of massive tree trunks outlining the block — they caress back . Unfamiliar faces smile politely at her ; her plum lips return the kind gesture . The meow of an Egyptian Mau perched on the edge of a couch , wedged beneath the bay window of the house at the corner , reminds her that she can make any place home that wants to be called home .
Growing up in an orphanage in Kampala , Anaisa dreamed of one day calling a family hers , a home hers . It didn ’ t matter where . Right there in Uganda , or as far East as Papua New Guinea , as long as it was hers . She dreamed and dreamed until twenty years later , when she found herself in a place called Calgary . Then she stopped ; but I digress .
It ’ s nighttime .
Anaisa pulls a plate of rotisserie chicken breast out of the microwave oven that sits on the counter table beneath the window facing her peach tree neighbor ’ s house . It ’ s dark . There ’ s no sign of life from within or
26 african Voices