This week's word is trail (verb \ˈtrāl\)
3: to move, flow, or extend slowly in thin streams
As the words spill from my mouth, my daughter grunts her usual one-word answers.
Anger. I feel. Lost.
I drop the blades into the processor, use a knife to disrupt the solid cream that rises to the top of the bottle of whipping cream and pour. I slam the bottle down, snap a lid on the bowl, and attach its motor on top.
I feel my lips thin, like my mother’s always were when she lost it. I squeeze hard on the button of the Braun handle, and I can’t help it, I can’t stop.
The child is too old for the attention-seeking behaviour she consistently pulls, but maybe she isn’t. She displays no self-control and this drives me crazy.
Again she grunts answers, offering only the top of her bowed head. This sends me further up the proverbial wall while the engine of my Braun drones a steady high pitch. Trying to quiet myself I lean my head on the counter, watching the creamy white in the clear plastic bowl. Rivulets of the cream trail down its side.
Upright again, I eye the bottle. In my anger I’ve dumped a half litre of liquid into a container that can maybe handle a quarter, a third max.
I look up, knowing that I am not in control.
Tears flow freely down my nine year old’s porcelain skin.
My gaze returns to the bowl. I feel the shift, hear the change, and observe as the liquid turns to a solid. Once it changes, it cannot be returned to it’s soft creamy beginnings.
As I rinse the butter and pour the buttermilk into cups for my younger two to enjoy, I feel the weight of my own exhaustion and I wonder where I can go from here.