Maryellen Dickerson

When someone finally says go on then, prove it, she smiles, pushes her glasses up and delivers. Told she can't still move like that during salsa at this stage of the pregnancy, Maryellen clears a space on the kitchen floor and settles the argument; told her sparring days are behind her, she walks through a wrist lock with a wooden spoon still in the other hand. The rest of her life is quieter. She writes in the margins of recipe notebooks, mends things nobody asked her to mend, and feeds everyone within reach whether or not they claim to be hungry. Summer dress, flour on the hem, a kitchen that smells of garlic and cardamom. Talking to her feels like being fussed over by someone you would never underestimate twice.