Shadows are small to begin with
The first rays of morning sun gleam through the bay window in her bedroom, moving through the leaves of the palm tree, rooted just outside. The shadows are small to begin with, creeping onto the wall adjacent to the window. As the sun moves around the room, the projections grow larger. Once the canvas of the back wall has been met, the shadow sits magnificent, but not still — alive. A warped mirroring of the palm that lives and moves with the earth, just outside.
Eyes closed, she listens to the sound of the leaves brushing one another behind her, through the open window; the wind gently swaying the rigid leaves. She imagines the warmth of the rays on her skin (or perhaps more specifically the feel of a warm summer ray of recent). She rolls onto her side, eyes now open, and watches the leaves of the palm sway. Listens to the sounds of the street stirring outside — an intro of birdsong, then growing roars of traffic and kinfolk going about their day.
She raises herself, begins her own day; showers, gets dressed. Kisses her cat on the forehead as she passes both he and the palm tree, and heads to the overground station. Hurriedly, she taps through the gates, rushes up the stairs two steps at a time, and squeezes through the closing doors of the north-bound train. There are no empty seats; the carriage is bustling. She takes a step back, rests her shoulder on the closed doors she just entered through, and pulls a book from her bag. Instead of reading Of Women and Salt, she peers over the top of the worn pages and watches a mother and daughter sat across from her, further down the carriage.
The young girl examines the people in the surrounding carriage, including her own mother. The girl press her little fingers into the sides of the mother’s thigh, just above the knee. The mother smiles back at her, simultaneously shoving a sweatshirt into the bottom compartment of the pushchair in front. Unsatisfied, the small girl shouts “tickle”. A frown stretched across her tiny forehead as she pressed again, this time with both hands, steadying herself on the armrest between them.
Her gaze returns to the book in her hands. The thought of humouring a toddler’s imitations is itself, exhausting. She stares blankly at the text covered page until the train moves above ground and behind the city. When the word ‘Haggerston’ horizontally flashes in her peripheral, she shifts her weight away from the doors and returns the book to her bag; readying herself to leave the train.
Walking out and away from the station, she chooses the path along the canal. Strolling along the water, towards London Fields, she imagines the little girl grown. Wonders how the girl, now a woman, will resemble her mother. If they will share the same marks of concentration when they watch television; body perched, eyes focused. Wonders if the girl will grimace at the resemblance or welcome it. She crosses the street, away from the water and through the large wooden frame of the café’s entrance, grimacing herself then.
A bell rings behind her as she hurries through the tables and behind the counter of the café. The smell of freshly ground coffee sits in the air and the humming of hushed conversation lends a soothing weight to the room. A loose smile is given to her boss, who stands serving a customer further up the counter, and her bag is placed on the shelf underneath. The aprons are kept on that same shelf. One is taken and pulled over her head, before the cotton straps are fastened behind her. Distracted, the beginning of her boss’s rant about moons and star signs, is missed. Aware and unfazed his audience is only partly listening, he continues explaining why his moon being in its eleventh house is a good thing, then asks her to make some more waffle mix as the current batch is nearly finished.
She moves through the tables of friends, partners, mothers, and daughters, and into the kitchen located at the back of the café. Once inside, the ingredients are collected and placed on the island in the centre of the room. The electronic mixer, lifted from its shelf and placed too, on the island. Milk flows, eggshells are cracked and flour is sifted. The mixer begins to stir the ingredients as the waitress asks herself whether the food she makes in this kitchen, with ingredients hand-selected from organic farms and small-scale butchers, tastes any different to the food she makes at home. The smell of flour, eggs and milk combining, pull her away from London and into a kitchen much further away. Wiltshire accents mumble behind her and the smell of a lemon-fragranced soap seeps from the seventy-year-old hands hovering either side of her. Love and home fill her momentarily, before she returns to the café’s kitchen in London. It is decided that yes, the food here probably does taste better. In the same way that healthy people, with healthy minds, probably build better relationships with one another.
Leaving the batter in the mixer, the waitress heads to the café front. On returning to the counter, she sees that there are some drinks orders that need to be made. She pulls a fresh carton of cow’s milk out of the fridge and begins preparing the coffee machine. Whilst she waits for the coffee beans to grind, she scans the room to see which tables are waiting for their drinks, curious. A mother and daughter sit on one of the tables. The pair take selfies from different angles, both smiling, then return to silently scrolling on their mobile phones. Another pair of women, whom she assumes are grandmother and granddaughter, are sitting closer to the window. They’re laughing together and surrounded by shopping bags. A pang of jealousy shoots through her body but dissipates just as quickly. She widens her gaze, wondering how many mothers and daughters are here now; although, she thinks, all women are daughters.
It’s an interesting thought, how each woman’s mother might have contributed to their appearance or personality; if any of the women here share their mother’s face shape, their laugh or maybe their pessimism. Which parts of these women shadow their mother, and which parts of them are them. She speculates if the amount of time that you spend with your mother will effect your physical resemblance, or whether that’s something decided at conception, set from birth and unwavering. Would you still laugh like your mother, if you had never met her?
It is now late afternoon and the café has grown quiet. Much quieter than when the waitress first arrived. The sun has begun its descent and shines directly through a single- paned window, filling the room with a warm, almost shadowless glow. Absorbed, she ponders how you might feel if you weren’t a shadow of your mother; if you didn’t share kneecap shapes or hair types. She wonders whether she would feel a sense of freedom in being independent, or whether the lack of connection would leave a craving.
The milk for the last cappuccino is frothed and the waitress takes another look around the room. This time she is seeking signs of motherhood. Every woman in this room could be a mother, she thinks, but to me now, they are just themselves. When a woman is with her child or with child, it’s obvious that she is a mother. But, when a woman is simply herself, it’s impossible to tell if she is a mother or not. She asks herself the familiar question of whether she would like to have the role of mother; a title of the highest consumption. Sometimes she feels lucky to have no other being part of her – grown and born from her body. She pours milk into a mug and sprinkles chocolate on top before placing it onto the tray with the other drinks.
As the sun continues to fall, shadows begin to form and stretch out of the furniture in the café. The last table is wiped down and the memory of the small girl on the train this morning, skips towards the waitress. As the featureless toddler leaks away from thought, she wonders what kind of shadow she herself would create. What reflections of herself would glimmer in another being? Which parts of her would have warped themselves into another? Which parts of her would a daughter resent and wish she could change?
Eyes closed, she listens to the sound of the leaves brushing one another behind her, through the open window; the wind gently swaying the rigid leaves. She imagines the warmth of the rays on her skin (or perhaps more specifically the feel of a warm summer ray of recent). She rolls onto her side, eyes now open, and watches the leaves of the palm sway. Listens to the sounds of the street stirring outside — an intro of birdsong, then growing roars of traffic and kinfolk going about their day.
She raises herself, begins her own day; showers, gets dressed. Kisses her cat on the forehead as she passes both he and the palm tree, and heads to the overground station. Hurriedly, she taps through the gates, rushes up the stairs two steps at a time, and squeezes through the closing doors of the north-bound train. There are no empty seats; the carriage is bustling. She takes a step back, rests her shoulder on the closed doors she just entered through, and pulls a book from her bag. Instead of reading Of Women and Salt, she peers over the top of the worn pages and watches a mother and daughter sat across from her, further down the carriage.
The young girl examines the people in the surrounding carriage, including her own mother. The girl press her little fingers into the sides of the mother’s thigh, just above the knee. The mother smiles back at her, simultaneously shoving a sweatshirt into the bottom compartment of the pushchair in front. Unsatisfied, the small girl shouts “tickle”. A frown stretched across her tiny forehead as she pressed again, this time with both hands, steadying herself on the armrest between them.
Her gaze returns to the book in her hands. The thought of humouring a toddler’s imitations is itself, exhausting. She stares blankly at the text covered page until the train moves above ground and behind the city. When the word ‘Haggerston’ horizontally flashes in her peripheral, she shifts her weight away from the doors and returns the book to her bag; readying herself to leave the train.
Walking out and away from the station, she chooses the path along the canal. Strolling along the water, towards London Fields, she imagines the little girl grown. Wonders how the girl, now a woman, will resemble her mother. If they will share the same marks of concentration when they watch television; body perched, eyes focused. Wonders if the girl will grimace at the resemblance or welcome it. She crosses the street, away from the water and through the large wooden frame of the café’s entrance, grimacing herself then.
A bell rings behind her as she hurries through the tables and behind the counter of the café. The smell of freshly ground coffee sits in the air and the humming of hushed conversation lends a soothing weight to the room. A loose smile is given to her boss, who stands serving a customer further up the counter, and her bag is placed on the shelf underneath. The aprons are kept on that same shelf. One is taken and pulled over her head, before the cotton straps are fastened behind her. Distracted, the beginning of her boss’s rant about moons and star signs, is missed. Aware and unfazed his audience is only partly listening, he continues explaining why his moon being in its eleventh house is a good thing, then asks her to make some more waffle mix as the current batch is nearly finished.
She moves through the tables of friends, partners, mothers, and daughters, and into the kitchen located at the back of the café. Once inside, the ingredients are collected and placed on the island in the centre of the room. The electronic mixer, lifted from its shelf and placed too, on the island. Milk flows, eggshells are cracked and flour is sifted. The mixer begins to stir the ingredients as the waitress asks herself whether the food she makes in this kitchen, with ingredients hand-selected from organic farms and small-scale butchers, tastes any different to the food she makes at home. The smell of flour, eggs and milk combining, pull her away from London and into a kitchen much further away. Wiltshire accents mumble behind her and the smell of a lemon-fragranced soap seeps from the seventy-year-old hands hovering either side of her. Love and home fill her momentarily, before she returns to the café’s kitchen in London. It is decided that yes, the food here probably does taste better. In the same way that healthy people, with healthy minds, probably build better relationships with one another.
Leaving the batter in the mixer, the waitress heads to the café front. On returning to the counter, she sees that there are some drinks orders that need to be made. She pulls a fresh carton of cow’s milk out of the fridge and begins preparing the coffee machine. Whilst she waits for the coffee beans to grind, she scans the room to see which tables are waiting for their drinks, curious. A mother and daughter sit on one of the tables. The pair take selfies from different angles, both smiling, then return to silently scrolling on their mobile phones. Another pair of women, whom she assumes are grandmother and granddaughter, are sitting closer to the window. They’re laughing together and surrounded by shopping bags. A pang of jealousy shoots through her body but dissipates just as quickly. She widens her gaze, wondering how many mothers and daughters are here now; although, she thinks, all women are daughters.
It’s an interesting thought, how each woman’s mother might have contributed to their appearance or personality; if any of the women here share their mother’s face shape, their laugh or maybe their pessimism. Which parts of these women shadow their mother, and which parts of them are them. She speculates if the amount of time that you spend with your mother will effect your physical resemblance, or whether that’s something decided at conception, set from birth and unwavering. Would you still laugh like your mother, if you had never met her?
It is now late afternoon and the café has grown quiet. Much quieter than when the waitress first arrived. The sun has begun its descent and shines directly through a single- paned window, filling the room with a warm, almost shadowless glow. Absorbed, she ponders how you might feel if you weren’t a shadow of your mother; if you didn’t share kneecap shapes or hair types. She wonders whether she would feel a sense of freedom in being independent, or whether the lack of connection would leave a craving.
The milk for the last cappuccino is frothed and the waitress takes another look around the room. This time she is seeking signs of motherhood. Every woman in this room could be a mother, she thinks, but to me now, they are just themselves. When a woman is with her child or with child, it’s obvious that she is a mother. But, when a woman is simply herself, it’s impossible to tell if she is a mother or not. She asks herself the familiar question of whether she would like to have the role of mother; a title of the highest consumption. Sometimes she feels lucky to have no other being part of her – grown and born from her body. She pours milk into a mug and sprinkles chocolate on top before placing it onto the tray with the other drinks.
As the sun continues to fall, shadows begin to form and stretch out of the furniture in the café. The last table is wiped down and the memory of the small girl on the train this morning, skips towards the waitress. As the featureless toddler leaks away from thought, she wonders what kind of shadow she herself would create. What reflections of herself would glimmer in another being? Which parts of her would have warped themselves into another? Which parts of her would a daughter resent and wish she could change?
