Nicki Salcedo

The Zero Mile Post marked the meeting of two railway lines and possibly the beginning of the city of Atlanta. Zero Mile is a series of sometimes fictionalized and sometimes real stories based on life in Atlanta, Georgia.

By Nicki Salcedo, contributor

I wonder why my body curves into this shape like the ocean curves into the shore.

I wonder why we don’t judge the waves for being calm and deep. I wonder why we don’t worry when the water creates a storm.

I wonder what makes me a woman. Is it the womb inside me? Is it my mind? I wonder.

I wonder about women.

I wonder why some men hate us. The energy we emit is powerful. We create such fear, such disdain, such obsession. My body creates chemical reactions that cannot be contained.

My sweat and breath are honeyed milk. I make no apologies for my sweetness.

I am strong. I do not compare myself to men. Men have been good companions to me. I neither revere nor disdain them. You might say I am as strong as or stronger than a man. But I compare myself to no one. I am the power of me. I am stronger than you think.

I wonder why some women hate themselves. Our sweet breath is both life and venom. I look for women who love me without asking me to change, without asking me to be just like they are. That is strength. That is power.

My tears are a gift. My kindness a privilege. My hands can both heal and strike. It makes you wonder about me.

I wonder about strapless swimsuits and high heel boots and pushup bras. I wonder about the armor we wear underneath our clothes. I want to know why our soft places must be held into an hourglass shape.

My irregular body, my warmth, my jiggly bits do not weaken my strength. There is power in my movement.

I wonder why people hate that movement. I am learning to love it again.

I wonder about the suit I wear. Sometimes with a skirt. You want to see my legs. Pants offend you. But not too much leg. I wonder about this balance I must maintain each day. Sexy prude. I’ve forgotten how to show some decency. But you are the indecent one. I am perfect. Woman. Wondering.

I wonder about the suit I wear. Sometimes pants. I’m not trying to be a man. Men don’t own the legs of my body or the slacks I wear. I like flexibility. My cool aloofness frightens you. I need this outer shell some days. The shield. I am tired of being battle-scarred. I wonder about this.

I am thoughtful. I am decisive. I do not compare myself to anyone. I tell you what I think. I write to be heard in the middle of the night in places too far to hear my voice.

My indifference unsettles you. You think my longing for solitude is unnatural. Can’t I also be Superman? I wonder why you call my directness being cold. I am a queen of many things including snow. Remember that ice also burns.

I watch a woman at my feet scrubbing my soles with a pumice. She is scrubbing my soul with a pumice. She is scrubbing my feet like I am a disciple, and she is my savior.

“You have nice feet,” she says. I have heard this over the years.

There are no calluses. No hard places. My feet are soft like a baby’s. The woman scrubs nonetheless.

“I wear good shoes,” I say. She stares at me in wonder, in confusion. I clarify, “I wear practical shoes.”

She understands. I have not pinched my toes or hobbled on high stilettos. I have a strange superpower. I wear plain shoes. I have pretty feet.

I wonder about the intimacy of hands on feet. She, with bent back and eyes downcast, is also a hero.

I look at the armor we put on our face. It is not the makeup, but the expressions of blank acceptance. I’d rather wear mascara and scowl. Other days I like smiling. I am both smiling and unsmiling. I make no apologies for the range of my expressions. I wonder if that’s what makes them most afraid. I can heal. I can strike.

I wonder.

I dream about Wonder Woman. She was my first hero. I still have the powers she taught me. I find the truth. It is rarely found in words. Still I find it.

Wonder about women.

I dream about Wonder Woman. Would she be so wonderful if she were ugly? If I stood next to her would you ever choose me? I don’t worry. I don’t compare myself to anyone. Not even her.

It makes me wonder about all women. We are so different from each other. We pull on our tall boots, because the only universal truth in our lives is how often we wade through shit. That is our sisterhood.

Wonder Woman can’t touch me. I know this. We seek the truth. We fly.

I wonder. I wonder if I am really the ocean. I’d never ask to be a man, but for a day it might be nice to be water.

Calm. Deep. Dreadful. The same things I am now.

Does the ocean wonder about me?

I am a wonder woman. I wonder. I was born without superhero strength, and they still expect me to fight. And they wonder if I’ll win.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the back roads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. Zero Mile stories appear on the Atlanta Loop on Wednesdays.

Greg Maddux

The Zero Mile Post marked the meeting of two railway lines and possibly the beginning of the city of Atlanta. Zero Mile is a series of sometimes fictionalized and sometimes real stories based on life in Atlanta, Georgia.

By Nicki Salcedo, contributor

And love and loyalty would pour out with that look, and as long as I had that, there was very little the human race could do to harm my self-esteem. – Lewis Grizzard

In my early years of marriage, every person asked me about having babies. Don’t do this. It is a strange thing that people encourage other people to saddle themselves with offspring. Marriage is one kind of human condition. Parenthood is distinctly another. Marriage was enough during those years. I never once dreamed of babies.

By the time we were married for two years, the baby questions became annoying. I’d say, “I’m never having kids,” just to panic my mother and mother-in-law.

One morning, a co-worker sent an email to the office. She’d found a litter of discarded kittens on the side of the highway. They were in a shoe box at her desk.

I didn’t worry about motherhood. Cats, on the other hand, had been a part of my life since childhood.

I knew better than to look at the kittens. I would have to have one. I spent the day wondering how many kittens were left. I was glad someone had been kind enough to save them from near certain death. I remembered how much I loved all the cats in my life. At five o’clock, I took the long way out of the building to walk by that desk. To see if any cats were left.

There was one.

She fit in the palm of my hand. A black piece of fluff crawled up my arm and perched on my shoulder like a parrot. She meowed at my face.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.” She was mine.

At home, I set up food and water and a soft bed. She meowed loudly. She climbed up to my shoulder. That night my parents had tickets to the Braves game. We went on a lot of double dates with my mom and dad in those years. When we left for baseball, the cat didn’t have a name.

Greg Maddux was the starting pitcher. It was his last season with the Braves. My mom and I debated names for the cat between innings. Salem. Midnight. My husband and my dad enjoyed cold beers. Maddux pitched one of the best games of his career.

As we left, my husband said, “Why don’t we name the cat Greg Maddux?”

His idea seemed ridiculous for about 10 seconds. A girl kitten named Greg Maddux? But my husband knew I loved baseball and knew I loved cats. “We can call her Maddux or Maddie,” he added. I agreed.

Greg Maddux Salcedo entered our lives at the start of baseball season. She left us on a Thursday, 14 years later, a few month into baseball season and the day before the last day of school. Maddie entered our quiet married life and watched us grow into a family with four children.

My heart is breaking.

Maddie liked the warm crook of my husband’s arm. No matter the time, if I left the bed, I’d return to find her in my spot. If I was gone for one minute, she’d jump up and claim my pillow. She liked his heat. She loved my indifference. She sat at my feet every day as I wrote.

She followed me everywhere. I haven’t peed alone in 14 years. She followed me into the kitchen even though she never jumped on counters or tables. Not once in 14 years. But she begged for cereal milk. It was such a specific thing. She never wanted cheese or tuna or Thanksgiving turkey. I wondered if it was the sound of the spoon and bowl that attracted her. She never begged when we had a glass of milk, but if you poured a bowl of cereal and milk she would appear with her loud meows.

She meowed constantly. Loudly. Never in complaint. The first vet who saw her as a kitten told us she was part Siamese. “She’s a talker,” the vet said. This was true.

Maddie was reclusive. Many friends over the years have been surprised to find out we had a cat. She would appear when it was quiet. Even the kids didn’t see her in the early years. After they would go to bed, Maddie would appear to show her love. She was, after all, our first baby.

Maddie alerted me when I was pregnant. She was sweet and sassy, but not a lap cat. When I was pregnant, she would find a way to sit in my lap or lay on my belly.

She did this for each of my pregnancies. The last time she did it, I had no idea I was pregnant. She climbed on to my stomach and started to purr loudly.

My husband said, “You better get a pregnancy test.” I thought this was ridiculous for precisely 10 seconds. Then I went to the pharmacy.

Maddux was right. She slept next to each baby after they were born. She was a protector.

Maddux meowed loudly. She purred every day of her life. I knew it was her last night when we pet her and she stayed silent. She blinked slowly as the kids got ready for school. They pet her to say goodbye. She gave her last breath as my husband held her. She needed his heat one last time.

Frisco was my first cat. He was named after Jack Wagner’s character on General Hospital. Ginger was an orange tabby named for her color and our favorite spice. Brandy was named for our neighbor’s cousin. I have been a cat sitter for many sweet cats over the years. Morgan, Soap, and Legolas.

I have known this joy before.

I wish I could find the person who dumped a litter of kittens on the side of the road in Fayetteville, Ga. at the beginning of baseball season. I wish I could tell him that the cats all found good homes. I wish I could tell that person even the last of the bunch was loved. She was mine. She had a man’s name and was a good friend.

“Someone thought she was garbage, but look at all the love she gave us.” I didn’t know what else to tell my kids when they got home from school.

The floor underneath my desk is empty. I have known this grief before. It is the kind of grief you will eventually be grateful for. But not today. Merci, Maddux.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the back roads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. Zero Mile stories appear on the Atlanta Loop on Wednesdays.

The Zero Mile Post marked the meeting of two railway lines and possibly the beginning of the city of Atlanta. Zero Mile is a series of sometimes fictionalized and sometimes real stories based on life in Atlanta, Georgia.

By Nicki Salcedo, contributor

“If you can’t dance sober, you shouldn’t dance at all.”

That was the best advice I could muster as I watched my nephew and niece graduate from high school this week.

I’m not a very good dancer. It doesn’t matter. I dance anyway. People who’ve seen me at weddings and parties know this. I like to dance. I silly dance. I sexy dance. I jump up-and-down dance. That’s my thing. I’m first on the dance floor. Sometimes I’m the first to dance and the last to leave.

I’m shy and awkward in so many ways, but not when I hear music.

When I went to college, I didn’t try to reinvent myself. The first version of myself was still forming. I knew college would involve drinking. I knew college would involve dancing.

I had two simple rules.

• Dance sober.
• Say “yes” if anyone asked me to dance.

My graduation advice should be about the importance of finishing your calculus homework the day it’s assigned. You should read the entire book before writing a paper about it. Attend office hours with your professor before you start failing a class. These things will help you make the grade and establish good habits. These things are true, but so is the value of dancing.

I spent my college years dancing with the boys the other girls turned down. Boys from neighboring colleges. Boys who weren’t in college at all. I danced with short boys and strange boys and nice boys. I danced with boys who had the courage to ask me to dance. This mattered to me. What good was the cute or tall guy or my crush from calculus if he never noticed if I was alive?

I noticed lots of things on the dance floor. Because I was sober.

This doesn’t mean I didn’t drink. I did. This doesn’t mean I didn’t make drinking mistakes. I did. Both during and after college. But my mistakes were few.

I still have a reputation with my current colleagues as the sober driver.

I hear “Nicki doesn’t drink” all the time. Yes, I do drink. I’d rather drink with my real friends, no offense. The ones who will notice if I’ve had too much to drink. The ones who are willing to meet me on the dance floor.

You can’t dance all night, if you drink all night. It’s true. Alcohol and dancing dehydrate you. I’m sure my niece and nephew don’t want a lecture on hydration on the eve of leaving for college. But here it is.

Stay hydrated, young college friends. Dance with a red Solo cup of water in your hand.

If you feel like you need a little alcohol to loosen you up, maybe you aren’t a dancer. That’s okay. I love pulling people on to the dance floor, but only the willing. There isn’t anything wrong with people who don’t like to dance. I get it. You feel vulnerable and foolish and uncool and insecure. Dancing is like being naked. If you drink, drink because you want to not because you need courage.

Why not dance? You should. When you dance the world shifts into perspective. The calculus crush boy seems less cute. The main thesis of your Shakespeare paper will become clear to you on the dance floor. You will notice that the strange boy you are dancing with has a nice smile and good dance moves.

For my nephew and niece these are my parting words:

• If you can’t dance sober, you shouldn’t dance at all. This is a rule for the rest of your life.
• Discover the world outside the gates of your college. You will meet people from all over the world. Now you are part of that world. Experience it.
• Sometimes “fun” is taking a long nap. Like an all-day nap. You will need to recharge eventually.
• Maximize your academic opportunities by having a plan. That means going to office hours and study sessions from day one.
• Arrive at class and lectures early. Stay late.
• Arrive at parties late and plan to leave early. Don’t be that kid at the party that looks desperate. Always travel to and from with a buddy.
• Find your tribe. Make a reference to Dr. Who see who gets it. That person can be trusted. Never ask a potential friend to choose between Star Wars and Star Trek.
• Success is not a destination. It’s a journey. Part of that journey is perseverance. Anything worth having is worth working for.
• An aunt is a friend who looks like your mom, but who doesn’t pay your tuition. You can tell me anything. You can call me. Or use the snapchat thingy.
• Become the kind of person who can give your aunt advice when she needs. Become the kind of person I can call when I need to talk.

Thank you for letting me tease you about the Hottie McHighschool boys at your graduation and in your yearbooks. I am not at all sorry for this. Remember to laugh. You have already made me proud. I look forward to the day when you pull me on to the dance floor. Congratulations.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the back roads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. Zero Mile stories will appear on the Atlanta Loop on Wednesdays.

Nicki Salcedo

The Zero Mile Post marked the meeting of two railway lines and possibly the beginning of the city of Atlanta. Zero Mile is a series of sometimes fictionalized and sometimes real stories based on life in Atlanta, Georgia.

By Nicki Salcedo, contributor

I’m a terrible speller, and my grammar is questionable. Writing is my way of documenting what I see in life. The things I see are also terrible and questionable. It’s hard to get the words right. I start by looking in the mirror. I’m the first monster I see each day.

I am female by birth, in mind, in body. But I’ve been mistaken for a man at various points in my life. I have a husky voice. I wasn’t curvy in my adolescent years. With a baseball hat on I could easily be confused for a boy. I was cast as a man in my middle school play. I wore a mustache and played the part of the professor.

Parents came up to me after the show and said I was a “nice young man.” I didn’t correct them. I felt proud. That’s real acting. I thought about Shakespeare and all the women who never stood on his stage. I took my gender neutrality as progress and as a compliment.

It wasn’t until I grew older that the word tomboy began to bother me. What did being a tomboy mean? Is there an opposite of tomboy? I still don’t know. I was a girl who liked Hess trucks and snakes and Barbie dolls. I am a woman who likes earthworms and construction cranes and red dresses.

Because I am terrible at grammar and gender, I’ve always loved the word “they.” For years I tried to use “they” and was forced to use “he or she.” It felt wrong. I would write “she or he” for my own empowerment until the grammar police would correct me.

Then we were allowed the “she/he” that was written as “s/he.” I hated this one with a passion. How do you read that? And I’m not a slash person. I am not a she-he. I’m me. I’m they.

I love this old show called “Sisters” for the sole fact that the four female leads all went by a masculine derivations of their names. Alex, Teddy, Georgie, and Frankie. I adore androgynous names. This might explain why I have so many kids, but was only successful of giving one a gender neutral name. This is also why nicknames are so important. If I shout out Squid or Goose or Captain, you really have no idea if I’m calling for my daughter or my son.

If you want to be on my good side, don’t hug me and call me Nick.

In my professional life, I have colleagues all over the world that I’ve never met in person. We work by email and instant message. I have no idea if they are male or female. Sometimes their names are foreign to me. Sometimes the names are known to me, but gender ambiguous. Kyle? Jamie? Dagmar? Azaria? What about my favorite May name, Juno?

I have a colleagues in Ireland and France. I communicate with them regularly. And based on their names, I have no idea if they are men or women. If they are she, he, or them. And I don’t worry about it.

But then I do worry. I worry about everything.

I worry if I am a true ally. I think we are all the same and know that we all have different perspectives.

I worry about our strange obsession with sex and sexuality. Our bodies are taboo on one hand. Then we define everyone we meet by their genitals and use of sexual organs. How does this even make sense?

I worry about the soccer cheer the girls say. I cringe when they chant, “We don’t need Barbie dolls. We like kicking soccer balls.” We can’t you like Barbie dolls AND soccer balls? I love balls. I can say that. I’m a married lady, and I enjoy sports.

I worry that I have a lot to learn about “they” and “them” meaning every person I meet.

I worry that I’m not the ally I should be.

I worry.

I wonder.

I wonder. A word like “they” used to mean other. You woman. You black. You blind. You queer. They can now mean us. All of us. No matter what secrets our bodies hold. No matter who we love. No matter.

If you see my name, if you hear my voice, if you see my body, and call me they or them. I will feel proud.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the back roads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. Zero Mile stories will appear on the Atlanta Loop on Wednesdays.

The Zero Mile Post marked the meeting of two railway lines and possibly the beginning of the city of Atlanta. Zero Mile is a series of sometimes fictionalized and sometimes real stories based on life in Atlanta, Georgia.

By Nicki Salcedo, contributor

I’m reading the book “13 Reasons Why.” I’ll explain my motives.

Because I can’t see a show or movie based on a book without first reading the book.

Because I have a 13 year old, I have to listen. Not talk. I hear the kids talking about it. I think that kids talking and us, the adults, listening is good. They are talking because someone told them that they shouldn’t watch the Netflix show. Someone told them not to read the book.

Because telling a kid “No” is the best way to get them to do that thing. I got four kids to iron this weekend. How? I told them they couldn’t. “The iron is hot and dangerous. I want the job done right.” They begged and pleaded. I relented. They did a good job.

“You know this is reverse psychology, right?” I asked. It isn’t the first time they’ve heard me say this.

“But, Mom, ironing is so much fun!” they said. Exactly the opposite of what I thought at age 13 when ironing was a requirement for me.

Because suicide is real. I have a friend in Palo Alto who volunteers at the railroad crossing near her son’s high school. She puts on a reflective vest and carries a flag. Parents take turns monitoring the train line that connects San Francisco to San Jose because so many kids have died by suicide.

Because the issue doesn’t end with teenagers and young adults. Anyone at any age could need support to prevent suicide. People say the phrase, “They had so much to live for.” A 15 year old girl and a 70 year old man both have so much to live for.

Because I don’t believe fiction has an obligation to facts. Do you know how much “To Kill a Mockingbird” or “The Help” fixed race relations in America? None. Not at all. Literature and movies and TV shows have an obligation to reveal a different kind of truth, however macabre the subject might be. Art also has an obligation to make us ask questions about ourselves and the world.

Because stories save lives. A story that one person disagrees with might also be the same story that changes another’s perspective and saves a life.

Because I need my kids to learn what is appropriate for them. I like horror movies a lot. I like zombies in just about every variation. I love Westerns. I like paranormal thrillers and science fiction. You want to know what scares me? “The Godfather” and “Scarface” scare me. Movies about the mafia and drug cartels freak me out. But not Freddy Kruger. I can’t explain it, but I know myself. I know what I can handle and what upsets me.

I don’t need my kids watching a TV show about suicide, but I do need them to start making choices on their own without me deciding for them.

“This show has a graphic suicide in it? Do you know what that means?” I asked because I didn’t know what my kids had already heard. They knew what suicide meant, but not the word “graphic.”

“Graphic means explicit. In detail. It means showing the razor and blood and a fake body being hurt in a way that would kill a real person. Do you want to see that?” I asked because kids are not stupid. They hear more and worse details from their friends. But they can talk to me too.

“Do you know what rape means? That means a violent sex act against someone’s will. It is painful. It leaves physical and emotional scars for a long time. It is a crime and a show of control. It is something serious. Meaning you don’t touch anyone in a way they don’t want to be touched and you don’t let anyone touch you in a way you don’t want to be touched.”

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the backroads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. Zero Mile stories will appear on the Atlanta Loop on Wednesdays.

Nicki Salcedo

The Zero Mile Post marked the meeting of two railway lines and possibly the beginning of the city of Atlanta. Zero Mile is a series of sometimes fictionalized and sometimes real stories based on life in Atlanta, Georgia.

By Nicki Salcedo, contributor 

Maybe we are all monsters.

I wonder what kind I am.

I like to be alone. Even when I’m alone, I sometimes feel like I’m too many people. I socialize when invited, but I often dread the idea of leaving my house and being around people. This includes my own family.

Last year, I stood in my kid’s classroom and the room began to fill with other parents. There were suddenly too many people jockeying for a front seat. Too many bodies close to me. I must have had a panicked look on my face.

The teacher approached me and said, “Would you feel better by the door?”

I would. I did. I moved away from the crowd to a place where I felt more comfortable. Now I instinctively position myself at the entrance just in case I need to escape. I like the idea of people, but not the actuality of people. They are selfish and fatiguing and racing to unknown finish lines.

They are monsters. Like me.

I accept invitations when I’m invited. I need to prove to the world that I am normal. I can be social when I try. They don’t have to know that I am messed up and mean and sad and angry. I am a monster. Then my special gift appears. Some call it optimism. I call it survival. These are the skills I have.

I am a person of low expectations. This means I’m almost always satisfied.

I take care of other people without expecting anything in return. I don’t need thanks or love or happiness as a result of something I do for someone else.

I take care of myself. I’m an employee who does not define myself by my job. I’m a mom who doesn’t like kids. I’m writer who thinks books should be free and writing should be taught to people who have nothing but words in their head.

I trust people who have hobbies. Running, quilting, book clubs, street art, whatever. These are important.

Happiness is not something that happens. Happiness is a thing created. I am messed up and mean and sad and angry. I am also profoundly happy. I make happiness each day. A magician makes magic out of nothing. A prayer is an invisible thing. Each morning I reach into the air and begin to make happiness.

I stand on the sidelines in the rain. This could be terrible, but I try to find joy. There are geese on the field next to us, and my umbrella makes a kaleidoscope of colors when I spin it.

I create my own expectations for motherhood. I set my own standards for what is correct and good and just. I find people who replicate joy. I work at happiness like it’s my job.

I don’t like it when people say, “Be happy.” You can’t just be happy. There isn’t a happiness switch. Happiness has a crank. Happiness is in the water at the bottom of a deep well. It may take days or weeks or years to bring it to the surface. You have to work at it.

I bought a bottle of water in the airport. The cashier said, “Did you ever spend all day outside in the summer? You didn’t want to go inside until the end of the day. This bottle of water tastes like that.”

There are poets working in the airport.

“Like hose water?” I asked.

“Yes! Like that. Delicious.”

She was finding happiness and giving it to me. I know the taste of hose water. It is probably not the best water in the world. But when you are happy in the summer, the water tastes happy. That’s the truth.

People try to warn me of dangerous parenting times ahead. I have entered the teenage years of motherhood. I don’t know why I’m so excited about this. But I’m very happy. Thirteen is a great age. When she was still a beautiful mystery inside my belly, we called her Lucky. I will have to trust her to care for me one day.

I look at motherhood and some days I look far, far into the future. I hope I’m lucky enough to get there.

This week, my hairdresser asked me if we should do something about my gray hair.

“Leave it,” I said. I looked in the mirror and saw something beautiful because I was looking for it. Call it gray or white or silver if you want, now I call them survival lines. I love them.

Each morning I look at the monster. I find the sad places, the moments of feeling overwhelmed, and all the regrets that fester as I sleep. I look at the gray hairs. I look for happiness. I reach into the air and begin to make happiness. It is my magic. It is my prayer.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the backroads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. Zero Mile stories will appear on the Atlanta Loop on Wednesdays.

The Zero Mile Post marked the meeting of two railway lines and possibly the beginning of the city of Atlanta. Zero Mile is a series of sometimes fictionalized and sometimes real stories based on life in Atlanta, Georgia.

By Nicki Salcedo, contributor 

She asks me to help her with her lunch. Normally she makes it on her own, but I don’t mind helping her. It is nearly 10 o’clock at night. A school night. We are tired. She smells like outside and sweat.

I think she would cope well in difficult situations. She doesn’t have a mature palate even though she is the oldest. She likes bread. She likes water. She doesn’t like much more than that. And yet she survives.

“Mommy, can you make strawberry chips?”

I have no idea what that is. She shows me.

“Cut the strawberries on the short side. The slices will make circles. The circles are strawberry chips.”

I see what she means. We normally slice strawberries the long way. Each slice looks like a heart. Sometimes we put them in the oven on low heat to make crisps. They are never sweet.

I get two sharp knives. She and I sit at the table.

“You have to slice them very thin,” she adds.

We start slicing. She shrieks in delight. She isn’t a shrieking kind of kid. She’s like me. Part cyborg. It is almost impossible to elicit a response from her. It isn’t teenage apathy. She’s always been this way. Indifference, I think, is a blessing.

Her sudden, obvious, happiness surprises me.

“They are so cute,” she says. The last time she told me something was cute was Christmas. I’d given her Darth Vader. “He’s so cute, he almost doesn’t look evil.” That seems more normal to me. Happiness served with a side of foreboding doom.

I look at the strawberries and wonder what makes this kid shine with pure happiness.

We are both holding knives. There are discarded stems. There is red strawberry juice on our hands and on the table. Everywhere.

I am thinking about a 20 ton bomb with a 10 ton blast radius. She doesn’t know this. I smile at her. We are seldom alone, just the two of us. I remember how much I liked being near my mom as a kid. I still wonder if I’ll ever be as smart as my mom. I think about how my heart has been beating the wrong way for more than three years. It hurts every day. I think of all the 13-year-old kids in America who rarely, if ever, see fresh fruit.

I think about the bombs they don’t report. The girls who are stolen. Cities destroyed.

I think about the kids who have felt bombs. Kids who have seen the blasts. Kids who died in flames. The end of the world as we know it, is the day you die. I wish I could feel indifferent to this. I wish I felt fine.

I get up and get a bowl. It is white ceramic with a delicate band of blue and a stripe of gold. I bought them secondhand. Every dish in my house had a life before us. We don’t have a complete set of matching plates. As soon as I see a crack or chip, I throw the dish away.

The first bowl I touch has a dried bit of food on it. I grab another and place the dirty one in the sink. This is normal, I tell myself. I try to take the focus away from what worries me. A dirty dish in the cupboard cannot worry me. Neither can the strawberry juice now staining my hands.

I have learned that a smile is a kind of lie. I do it regularly. But I love smiling. It is the beginning of something good. I smile at my daughter again and put the bowl between us.

“I love the slices. I think strawberries taste better this way,” she says. “I can’t wait for lunch tomorrow.”

Tomorrow is a good thing.

I say a prayer and ask that I never become the kind of person who rejoices in anyone’s death. I say a prayer of thanksgiving for this moment in honor of the people who will never know the taste strawberries.

I nod and smile a real smile. I love how this child smells even when she is covered in dirt. I need her unexpected happiness. She rushes up to bed, and I sit alone. Ten minutes is all it took to heal me a little bit. I tell myself to focus on the strawberries. A strange sour fruit that sometimes surprises us with its sweetness.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the backroads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. Zero Mile stories will appear on the Atlanta Loop on Wednesdays.