Azucar by Nick Thran It’s been a struggle my mother spoke about learning Spanish, but also about the dispute then pulsing through the hardwood floor of the flat above our heads. Neither of us really knew what was up, until an open palm strike broke the language barrier, and mother, who tries hard to do good in this world, marched up stairs, banged on their door till it opened enough for her to ask in a friendly, foreign voice for azucar, the Spanish word for sugar she made a point to learn before bastard, prison, abuse, and asshole, you leave her alone. Though reluctant, the man did have a little, but she said it took more than a bit of time for him to search out the pantry, as she stood in the foyer listening to soft weeping from another room. My mother knew the word gracias. Used the azucar to bake her world-famous banana bread; a recipe dug up after each of the moments she’d call, in our native tongue, a crisis. That night she cut the pieces thick, and after they cooled, placed two on a bone white china plate, and whispered through that beautiful silence: I believe they’re ok now to eat. Azucar never tasted so sweet; it was never so easy to swallow. Look. Nick Thran wants you to let him go to sleep.

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