Where am I going?

Like a thousand mornings before, I woke in the darkness the hour before dawn. It was quiet now, still, only the sound of breathing in the bedroom, in Mother’s bedroom, telling me I wasn’t alone. She wasn’t alone either. There was the occasional rasping snore to tell me that, from a man too drunk to stumble his way out after he’d finished.

I immediately began washing clean with the perfumed water, I didn’t much like the smell, but I knew better than to skip the ritual ablutions. Mother had bought it specially for me. A rare act of generosity.

My robe was still as threadbare and patched together as ever. Perhaps I might beg for another, she might accede. A child’s garment was no longer appropriate.

I was finally of age. Today I would be welcomed as an initiate into new mysteries, granted another step on the paths of wisdom.

I was almost tempted to leave without preparing anything for a breakfast, but I didn’t want a scolding when I got home. Or risk a beating if she decided to be angry at me.

No matter how this day ended, she was still my mother, as she always would be.

Even if I wanted to stay away a few days, I couldn’t. I had to return to her. At least we’d be alone together, no man would risk sharing a woman’s bed once the sun set.

Not this night.

So instead of leaving immediately, I filled a pot with water and the tea leaves she liked, then put a spoonful of porridge to soak in another pot of water, with a covered bowl of cut fruits beside, if the man wanted something else, he could have someone else make it.

Not that there was much else to choose, Mother kept that much of the law, even more stridently than most of our neighbors. That was a matter of pride, a way to look down on them.

I doubt he’d care. Mother did not seek out men for their virtues.

More likely he’d be stumbling out on his own, seeking to purchase something better to eat with whatever coin was left in his purse.

I saw it on the floor in front of the door before I left, piled with the rest of his clothes. I

stepped carefully around it, I’m no thief.

The darkness in the stairwell didn’t bother me, my eyes were keen enough that I didn’t fear tripping as I moved quickly down the stone steps.

The day had yet to officially begin, most people were still in their own beds, but others were hard at work already, including the bakery on the ground floor, its ovens lit and warm, they’d be dark later, the fires banked and cooling.

Three whole days before they’d be lit again. So there would be bread and other meals cooking all day, every rack and tray as full as possible. I could smell them already, the thick redolent aroma as rich as it had been almost every morning since I was old enough to remember coming here with my grandmother. Only on the holy days were they ever close to empty, with the smell of ashes a lingering remnant.

A crowd of women bustled in the room before me, brightly lit enough to blind my dark-adjusted eyes so I could only see them as moving shadows in my vision. Still, I knew some were preparing to serve a morning meal in the markets, or putting them in baskets that the younger women might carry back to their families. A few were probably even eating themselves.

On most days, I might have asked for a bite of some treat or another, but today it was merely a torment to imagine the delightful taste on my tongue.

“Dawn’s Light, child,” called old Yamma Kutherine in greeting as I entered her kitchen, the bakery was hers, this whole entire building and shares of three others besides, “are you well on this glorious day?”

She was sitting on a stool by one of her ovens, and I bowed before her, three times, out of respect for her age, for her kindness, and to honor her friendship. Then I clapped my hands together before speaking.

“Night’s Fall, Eldest, I am well, today I go to be blessed in the temple, and to beg to enjoy the glories of our Sublime Mother should I be graced with her Kiss.”

She stuck out a hand, skin aged and wrinkled, veins bold on the back, her flour-dusted fingers beckoned me closer, and as I came up to her, she reached out and stroked my short hair.

“Ay, it is that day for you, I know. They’ll be proud of you. You remind me so much of them, you know that, don’t you?”

“My grandmother, and…”

I did not think I wanted to resemble my mother. I did not think she’d ever take pride in me.

And nobody knew my father, not even to guess whether he was among a given thousand men.

“You never knew him, but your hair, it’s so like your grandfather’s.” she said, “a pity you cut it so short. Your Yamma would never have asked that of you.”

I knew that, but I had honored her life with the gift of my hair anyway. I could still feel the sharpness of the razor flying over my scalp as the barber shaved it off, leaving only one solitary lock remaining. Months had passed, and it had only barely begun to grow back.

“It was a small price, I gave it freely, had I a hundred heads, it would not have been enough,” I answered as I choked back tears. I remembered the burning too, the stink of a thousand pieces of hair tossed in the censer.

I shook my head pushing away the memories, “I must go, Eldest, I must be there before the bells ring.”

She clapped her hands together in dismissal, and I left at a run, not to get to my destination, but fleeing, desperate to escape the crushing weight of my past. If only I knew where to go.