A woman’s place is in the kitchen. At least here we are guaranteed one small bite of relief.

Out in the rest of the house I take up too much space. My inside voice is too loud for the people I didn’t realize were listening. I move through the halls, murmuring incantations to myself, taking note of the light and the terracotta.

Silently memorizing the things that are unwanted.

When I was young, the world was a place to be explored but here, in the house, there are ears behind every closed door, and eyes examining me from the shadows. When I was younger, we tried our best to help but here, in the house, there is a way things should be done. There are unwritten rules on how the floors should be swept and the doors should be closed, there are unwritten rules and you would be a fool not to know, you goddamn fool. You stupid girl. There are unwritten rules you must intuit, or maybe you are told, but no one told me. At least not until it was too late.

My mother told me life was a game. I was too young to realize, games are not meant to be fun.

You stupid girl.

When I was younger I believed our lives were meant to be lived in ever-expanding circles; I am a pebble, waiting on the expanse of the pond, dripping ripples that move outwards til they touch the banks of Elysium. Now that I am older, I know the circles of life are contracting, inward. Here in the house, the admonition pushes me backward; my explorations move from the hallway, to the door, to the corners then the recesses of my own mind until all I dare explore is the kitchen.

A woman’s place is in the kitchen. In the kitchen, there is no shame in looking down. That’s what they want of you, after all, but they hate you when you do it.

A version of the first line of Berry Cobbler was originally published as the poetry couplet for Desert Minis 116 berry cobbler. The piece is from my upcoming book, “Love Letters to Melancholy (and Other Things I Found in the Desert)” which is being self-published using the funds from my Desert Minis project.