The Offering

Today, they have forgotten about their favourite God. Every morning – almost every morning – in this house begins with a ritual and ends with an offering of diced fruit or fresh flowers laid next to my statue.

Today, I have nothing.

At this time of day – usually– everything is so still. Someone will lay a silver tray, someone will sing to me, someone will scoop the youngest child into their arms and show her how to fold her fingers in prayer.

Today, there is only chaos.

This morning, that little girl is two heads taller than the day she was born. Just imagine. She is playing in the corner of the room and, filled with excitement, breaks apart the heads from bodies of three, strange plastic creatures. Aliens. Odd colours. Two eyes, three eyes, blue eyes, big nose, no nose, bad teeth. She studies them, before turning her attention to me.

I am scared.

She approaches my shrine gripping their heads in each of her fists before laying them at my feet. Up close, I notice that the heads are different sizes too. After a few minutes I see that she is trying to stack them one on top of the other and kindly communicate which order would please me the most - brown, green, brown.

She is so stubborn.

Settling on brown, brown green – she offers me what she has made, and places her statue next to me.

We are the same height.

I’ll take it.