A Fast Word: Wyandotte

Editor’s note: During the month of ‘Ala’ a handful of writers collaborate to share one work for each day of the Fast.

Wyandotte

It was raining on the first day I fasted. It wasn’t a downpour, it was a mist, and the sun hid above the clouds most of the day. I can still hear my mom’s voice calling the weather “dreary” as she drove through Wyandotte on the way to pick up our dinner. It was one of those situations where, since it was my first “fast-breaking” meal, I got to choose the cuisine and selected cheap tacos from a place across town.

On almost any other day, the smell of greasy tacos would be considered unpleasant, perhaps offensive. But as the sun inched closer to the horizon, the aroma from the hot bag of food on my lap was so appetizing that it kept my mom’s foot pressed firmly on the gas pedal, and my eyes shifting constantly to the dashboard clock.

When the car smacked into us from the next lane over, my first thought was, “How long is this gonna take?” This wasn’t a life-threatening impact, mind you, the neighboring vehicle simply misjudged its clearance prior to changing lanes. Our biggest concern wasn’t the damage to the front quarter panel, it was the vacancy in our stomachs or the dehydration in our mouths.

With our hazard lights blinking, rain drops collecting on the windshield, and a bag of tacos on my lap, I watched my mother debating with the other driver and a pair of bored policemen, presumably determining fault in a painfully minor car accident. I watched the clock tick away the minutes, getting closer and closer to that golden moment when we would be permitted to eat once again.

With a minute to spare, my mom’s door popped open. “Relief!” I thought, only to have my hope stamped out when my mother grabbed her purse and slammed the door as quickly as she had opened it. I watched her return to the debate and fumble through her purse, a sight that quickly lost my attention as I turned back to the clock and saw it blink over to a minute past sundown.

I spread open the bag, looked inside at the steamy take-out containers, and promptly moved the whole thing to the floor. “I can wait a little while longer,” I told myself as I leaned back in my chair and turned up the volume on the car stereo.

Fifteen minutes after sundown, my mom got into the drivers’ seat and thanked me for waiting to eat. She drove down the street and turned into a lot, and parked in a spot overlooking the river. “Let’s just eat here,” she said. I immediately had the cartons of food open and on my lap, ready to dig in. But my mom was holding a prayer book.

With the sun long-gone, our windows fogged up, and our food gone cold, we prayed. With our car dented, our stomachs empty, and our mouths dry, we prayed. We closed the book and felt full before we took our first bites.

– Michael Hasan Castelaz