With the Fire on High

by Elizabeth Acevedo

My aunt Sarah says it’s in our blood, an innate need to tell a story through food.

And sometimes focusing on what you can control is the only way to lessen the pang in your chest when you think about the things you can’t.

People say that you’re stuck with the family you’re born into. And for most people, that’s probably true. But we all make choices about people. Who we want to hold close, who we want to remain in our lives, and who we are just fine without.

But it’s like I’m some long-division problem folks keep wanting to parcel into pieces, and they don’t hear me when I say: I don’t reduce, homies. The whole of me is Black. The whole of me is whole.

And maybe because I struggle to learn certain lessons, this one has taken me years and years to learn: You can’t make too much space for a father like mine in your life. Because he’ll elbow his way in and stretch the corners wide, and when he leaves all you have is the oversized empty—the gap in your heart where a parent should be.

I come from a place that’s as sweet as the freshest berry, as sour as curdled milk; where we dream of owning mansions and leaving the hood; where we couldn’t imagine having been raised anywhere else.

Where we come from leaves its fingerprints all over us, and if you know how to read the signs of a place, you know a little bit more who someone is.

sometimes I feel more scattered than Babygirl’s toys.

There’s so much I want for her that sometimes I think the seams of my skin aren’t enough to contain every hope I have.

I’ve known since I was little that we had to learn to treat money like a rubber band and stretch that jawn until it almost snaps.

like a map I’ve been following without knowing the exact destination, I know now I’ve been equipping myself with tools from the journey to help me survive when I arrive.