One Daughter at Four-Hundred Degrees

James R. Gapinski
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After my daughter died, I gathered pieces of her from around the apartment. I found strands of hair in a hairbrush, dandruff flakes on her towel, nail clippings from her bedroom floor, and blood from a Band-Aid in the wastebasket.
I took all these artifacts and mixed them in a large bowl. I stirred everything into a thick paste, and I kept stirring until my arthritis flared. I ladled the paste into a big cake pan, and I baked her at four-hundred degrees. I watched through the oven’s little glass window as my daughter grew inside. First an eye, then a nose. Arms. Fingers. Hair followed by a dusting of new dandruff. Her legs sprouted last and clanked against the side of the oven.
I opened the oven door. At first, I had to turn away; the heat was too intense. I crawled back toward the door in painstaking increments. I asked her to come out and rejoin the family. She shook her head no and curled back up, receding into the cake pan. I showed her old family photo albums, hoping to sway her emotions, but she didn’t move. I tried to coax her out with gifts, but that didn’t work either. So I crawled inside the oven with her. Her arms emerged from the cake pan, and she hugged me. I held her close. Even as my flesh and sinew blistered and burned, I held on.

James R. Gapinski holds an MFA in creative writing from Goddard College, and he’s the managing editor of The Conium Review. His work has appeared in theNewerYork, Line Zero, Heavy Feather Review, and else- where. He lives near Boston with his partner, two cats, and a collection of 8-bit video games.