The woman carries a small plastic box around the church. Someone from the women's group points her toward the kitchen. The carrying woman follows the finger's point.

In the kitchen, the woman sees a long metal table lined with covered dishes.

"You can set that right there," says a man whose name the woman can't remember. This is not the first time his name has slipped her mind. The man is a regular with very sculpted muscles and a glossy bald head. The woman doesn't know if he shaved his head or became bald by nature. Since there are three muscular, bald, male congregants, he might not even be the one whose name she knew and forgot.

"Right there." The man uses his elbow to indicate a spot between a corn casserole and fruit salad.

"No thank you," the woman says, and clutches the box tighter.

Yellow post-it notes designate  Angel Pudding, White Sauce, and Cozy Ambrosia. The kitchen smells vaguely of bleach.

"Someone pointed me towards the kitchen," she says.

The man palpates his hairless scalp. An overhead fluorescent light massages glowingness into the balded area.

The man pads around the table and asks what the woman needs. His shoes making squeaking noises.

The woman sighs; she dislikes confrontation and conversation. The woman says another woman told her to come. Like she said once already.

The man knows what she said but he wants to know why.

The woman doesn't know. She followed instructions. She is not one to make waves or ruffle local feathers.

"I guess you can leave then," the man says. "If you don't know why you're here."

The woman walks out of the kitchen and back into the church hallway. She holds the plastic box and waits for directions. The plastic box waits for the woman. The directions have not been written so they wait for a mouth. It takes a magic word to bear aloft the lightweight hopes and dreams of plastic containers.

The pastor sees the woman and approaches her from the left side. He places his hand on her unholding arm. "Why Gladys, I'm surprised to see you here. It's been too long, hasn't it?"

The woman wakes up at the sound of her name being pronounced, the syllables fractured by politeness. A moron collects signatures for a local petition near the door. He hogs the doormat.

"Yes, it's been some time," the woman named Gladys acknowledges.

"Well I'm just delighted that you're here. Will you join us for worship and brunch?"

The woman opens her mouth and closes it—silence. When she was six, she put a plastic easter egg in her mouth and remained mute for an entire afternoon.

Another attempt, this time with slivers of sound: "I won't, Pastor. Not personally. Not in my physical person, so to speak. However, I brought dear Mother along because she always feels splendidly during Lenten services. There are pink highlights on her fridge calendar. I was hoping I might be able to leave her on the front pew for the duration and come to retrieve her afterwards."

The pastor ignores the moron, the doormat, the dust on the wreath. He moves his hand from her arm to the plastic box. Ashes to ashes.

"Why certainly," he says to the woman in a crisp, reassuring tone. He has been a pastor through three Thanksgiving holidays now, each worse than the last. It's not even close to Thanksgiving yet. "I'll keep an eye on that feisty spirit of hers during the service."

The woman thanks the pastor. She walks towards the wooden chapel entryway and then turns around to express what she just remembered. "About bruch—I don't believe Mother will be staying. Please don't change your seating arrangements. No one wants to be fussed over."

The pastor's lips open like wax cherub wings. As the woman makes her way into the chapel to drop off the box, he remembers the mother fondly—her apple pies, diligent tithes, purple sandals.

Alina Stefanescu was born in Romania and lives in Alabama. Her book of stories, EVERY MASK I TRIED ON, came out this spring.

Read her postcard.

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