Spilled Milk and Hand-turkeys

It was late July in South Carolina. The afternoon heat pressed down like a smothering hand, curling through the warped slats of the porch railing and settling into the dust. Margaret stood at the kitchen sink, peeling an orange in slow, deliberate circles, watching as the juice bled onto her fingers. Outside, her children played, their shrieks and laughter bouncing off the side of the house like pebbles against glass.

She was tired. Bone-tired. The kind of tired that settled into the back of her knees and behind her eyes, that made her long for the silence of an empty house. But silence was something she had not known for years.

As if on cue, the screen door banged open, and Daniel, her youngest, stood barefoot on the linoleum. "Mama, I want some milk."

Margaret sighed and wiped her hands on her apron. She reached for the milk, poured it into a cup, and turned to hand it to him. Before the refrigerator door could shut, Sarah appeared. "Me too, Mama."

Margaret gritted her teeth and poured another glass. She set it down and turned back to the sink. The sound of bare feet slapping against the floor signaled Daniel's return. "I spilled mine."

She closed her eyes and counted to five. When she turned, she saw the milk pooling on the table, dripping to the floor, and Daniel staring at it as if it had betrayed him. She handed him a rag and stepped outside before she could say something she’d regret.

The heat wrapped around her, but the chaos of the house was momentarily muffled. She sank onto the steps and stared at the stretch of road leading away from the house. The thought came unbidden—how easy it would be to walk down that road, past the rusted mailbox and the bent wire fence, and keep walking until she found some quiet.

Then, from behind her, a small hand landed on her shoulder. Sarah, her face still round with baby softness, leaned against her. "Mama, you wanna see my hand-turkey?"

Margaret exhaled and looked at the crayon-scrawled paper clutched in Sarah’s hand. A lopsided turkey, drawn around the imprint of a child's hand, colored in furious, erratic strokes.

"That’s real nice, baby."

Sarah grinned and plopped down beside her, her feet swinging over the edge of the porch.

Margaret thought about the long, weary days, the endless messes, the screaming, the fighting, the way she never had a moment to herself. But she also thought about the way Daniel curled into her at night, his breath warm against her collarbone, the way Sarah laughed like bells when she was tickled, the way they looked at her like she was the whole of the world.

She had never thought holiness would come to her like this, through spilled milk and hand-turkeys, through sticky fingers and whispered prayers. But here it was, as inescapable as the heat, as constant as the dust.

She pulled Sarah close and kissed the top of her head. "You know what, honey? That just might be the best turkey I ever saw."

Sarah beamed. And in the late afternoon sun, Margaret felt the weight of her exhaustion shift, not lifted but made lighter, as if by hands unseen.