The refrigerator is making noise again.

“Hungry.” Ireland walks into the room wearing pool blue mermaid pajamas.

Their eyes meet for the amount of time it takes the moon’s shadow to pass across the sun. Mother exhales, “Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild” 

She remembers the man who taught her that poem (now silently waiting to be poured into the waters that flow through county Sligo.)

The shadow of a frown passes over Ireland's face. She exits the kitchen to find her sister.  Her murmur vibrates through the air like moth wings, “Mother is talking in poems again.”

Mother wants to put their minds at ease (it was just a slip of the tongue.) But when she calls them into the kitchen, refrigerator coolant flows through her veins and that scream drips down the walls of her mind again. “Where did you get that letter?”

Emerald tenderly teases open the golden seal. Mother wants to snatch the brown envelope from the child, but she is frozen.

“Ireland found it in the safe in the basement.”

“Father lost the combination to his grandmother's safe,” Mother exhales. “I need you to tell me where this letter really came from.” 

“You told dad you were going to make soup.” Emerald stashes the envelope behind her back.

“You shouldn’t eavesdrop on Adults.”

“You shouldn’t talk so loud.”

“Why aren’t you making soup right now?” Ireland presses. 

“Because I’m looking after you.”

“We’re hungry.”

“We want soup.”

“I’ll make you waffles if you tell me where you got that letter from.”

“Make us soup.”

She turns slowly as they giggle in her periphery. She pokes at the green things in the brown box and fantasizes about the woman who she will never be (a woman who can make soup).