I annoyed Mom by insisting on waiting in the truck. Before slamming the door, she snatched the keys so I couldn’t listen to the radio. It didn’t matter. The butcher was efficient, so I hadn’t long to wait.

My sister happily accompanied Mom inside to pick up the meat. A longtime fan of horror movies (a viewing habit she acquired at our dad’s place), Rebecca had no aversion to gore. In fact, the promise of freshly spilled blood excited her. Juvenile.

I expected her to come out of the butcher’s changed. After seeing the docile goat hoisted by its hind legs and having its throat cut, she would realize there is a world of difference between the zombies on TV and the blood that dribbles from frightened animals who suffer. The butcher’s goats felt pain. Witnessing that must take a toll.

The brown paper packages steamed in the cold air. The still-warm meat appeared to breathe, exhaling silent bleats that turned to white clouds. Rebecca tossed the packages into my lap, like she thought I wanted them to warm my hands. I was wrong. She didn’t come out of the butcher’s horrified.

Mom sped all the way home, running STOP signs, as if the five-minute difference changed the freshness of the meat. Mom said Auntie Regina had a fussy palate. She had eaten from all the best tables, so the meat we offered her needed to be superb. Auntie Regina had many culinary experiences to judge us against.

“But we’re family. Shouldn’t we be able to feed her peanut butter crackers and she’d be just as happy?”

Mom would have none of my sass. “Auntie Regina has traveled a long way to be here. Just because she doesn’t expect much doesn’t mean we won’t give her our best.”

Before the truck clunked to a stop in our driveway, my sister threw off her seatbelt and hustled the meat into the kitchen. Alone together, I expected a lecture from Mom, but she sat silent behind the wheel. I noticed for the first time the brown paper package in her lap. She un-crinkled the bundle, revealing the goat’s foot. The hair was matted together, tangled and filthy like it had just come from the wild. The black hoof was chipped. The animal had walked many miles over rough ground.

“Don’t lollygag. Get in there and help your sister. You both need to prepare the meal.”

Before going into the house, I watched Mom carry the goat’s hoof to the garden. Thinking ahead, she'd dug a hole yesterday, before the overnight chill froze the ground rock-hard. On her knees, she buried the goat’s hoof, and I realized she sympathized with my point of view more than she let on. She may even have been proud of me.

I wouldn’t handle the meat without my winter gloves, even though they threw my dexterity all to hell. I wanted to avoid feeling the sad texture of dead flesh. I carved with our sharpest knife, slowly, otherwise I’d clumsily shear through my fingers.

Rebecca used her bare hands. She didn’t mind getting blood under her fingernails.

We greased the pan, sprinkled seasoning into the crackling oil, and placed my perfectly cut strips onto the heat. We seared each side of the goat quickly, just enough to trap the juices. We didn’t want to overcook. Any worms in the meat wouldn’t be killed, but that was okay. A real gourmand like Auntie Regina appreciated the taste of live parasites.

The pettiness in me hoped Auntie Regina would be late. She didn’t have a reputation for punctuality. I’d heard stories of her showing up for weddings and funerals months after the event, demanding brides redon their wedding gowns, or exhume the deceased for reburial. I would have gleaned great satisfaction from watching the feast we’d prepared sit on the table for hours, growing cold, drawing flies. Let the meat sit until it went stiff and Mom felt like a fool for so much rushing.

Auntie Regina denied me the satisfaction. She arrived at seven on the dot, her shawl snagged full of leaves.

There were no welcoming hugs or chit-chat. She strode into the kitchen and declared, “Hope dinner’s ready. I’m famished.”

I’ve never watched anyone eat as methodically as Auntie Regina. She’d lost most of her teeth, and the rotten ones remaining were supplemented with stones she pierced into her gums. Her vanity prevented her from getting dentures. She would rather have her mouth swollen with infection than parade around with obviously fake Chiclet teeth.

Auntie Regina sliced her meat wafer-thin. She swished each flap of meat around in her mouth until it broke down into a mess of protein threads. Her feeding stretched on for ages. Our plates had been cleaned, but manners dictated we remain at the table until our guest finished. Auntie Regina wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but she complimented our cooking.

“You children did an excellent job. This is the finest camel I’ve had in ages.”

“It’s goat.”

“Well, it must have lived quite a life. Few meats are experienced enough to be mistaken for camel.”

At last, her plate was empty and she asked for bread to mop up the juices.

“In my younger days, I would have licked the plate clean,” she confided. “But now that people have expectations of dignity about me, I use bread instead of my tongue.”

“That’s funny,” I said. “Because I’d rather eat bread than tongue.”

Rebecca kicked me under the table, warning me not to start proselytizing.

“Yes,” Auntie Regina said, “but which would you rather kiss?”

After dinner, we retired to the living room.  Mom offered Auntie Regina cognac. The spirits were so ancient the bottle came wrapped in a thick layer of plaster she had to break open. Dad sold his work truck to afford the bottle of cognac. Mom assured him Auntie Regina’s favour would be worth the sacrifice.

Auntie Regina knew why she had been invited to dinner, so there was no awkward beating around the bush. Full of goat and cognac, she invited Rebecca and me to, “Go ahead, pin your hopes on my breast.”

For months, Rebecca and I had worked diligently on our hopes. I built mine from a plump chestnut. Countless hours had been spent shaving away the brown rind and carving a busy tableau into the white flesh. I sculpted animal heads, using a protractor to make the distance between their eyes as accurate as possible. I hoped that by making the heads realistic, you would believe the rest of the animal’s body existed buried in the chestnut.

Rebecca built her hope out of the bones of a robin our cat caught. She used calendula roots to bind the bones together into a pyramid, and filled the center with bird-nest twigs and wasp comb.

Crouched on our knees to show respect, we pinned these ornaments beneath Auntie Regina’s breasts. She bounced them with her fingers, gauging their weight, testing their construction, determining if we’d earned the right to pin them to her. They needed to be worthy hopes.

Auntie Regina dribbled the last of her cognac over her chest. The heavy liquor made Rebecca’s bird bones sizzle, and I’d swear I saw my animal heads writhe, their eyes stung by the alcohol fumes. Auntie Regina struck a wooden match against the arm of her chair and touched the flame to her damp gown. A blanket of blue flame covered her, consuming our hopes, turning them to charred ash. The fire Auntie Regina wore lit up the entire room. I could see every wrinkle and silky hair sprouting from her face. She didn’t make a sound, not even as the flames ate through her dress, filling our nostrils with the deceivingly-sweet aroma of her burning skin.

The poultice had been soaking on the kitchen counter all day in preparation. Echinacea root with white yarrow and red bee balm swirled together in the jar, creating a vibrant pattern. You’d think these herbs were chosen for their colour co-ordination rather than their healing properties.

Auntie Regina reclined in the empty tub. A pillow supported her head, and a thick quilt covered the basin so she didn’t squeak each time she shifted position. Her dress remained on the living room floor; charred rags stomped into the carpet. The smell of it lingered; a dirty scent, like burnt hair.

I wrapped the soaked herbs into two gauze bundles, one for me and one for Rebecca. We knelt at the side of the tub, shoulder to shoulder, and applied the herbs to the two large welts on Auntie Regina’s chest where our hopes burned. Water squeezed out, making a slllll sound that reminded me of a branding iron dipped in cold water. Auntie Regina shut her eyes and inhaled sharply. “The aftercare always hurts worse than the burning.”

The exhaustion of her suffering made her pass out. We angled her neck to ensure she could still breathe. Her snores smelled like cognac, and I hoped she continued imbibing and feeling good in her dreams. I imagined her swimming in a syrupy river.

Rebecca and I used our hands to press the herb-smeared bandages over Auntie Regina’s wound, as though we could force healing by strength. As the hours of the night dragged by, our legs ached, and our arms began to vibrate from being held in the same position long past our muscles’ endurance. Neither wanted to be the first to leave her side, as though we were competing to gain favor for our hopes.

“Auntie Regina?” Rebecca whispered, testing the waters. When there was no reaction, she asked what hope I’d spent months patiently constructing, that I wanted passionately enough to pin and burn on Auntie Regina’s breast. People hoped for wealth, true love, invincibility, all manners of treasures. I thought of Dad selling his truck for Auntie Regina’s cognac, how disappointed he’d be in my “wasted” hope.

“I hope for peace and harmony amongst all living things.”

Rebecca bowed respectfully at my altruism. “We’re not so different. I hope for everyone to be well-fed, never starved for blood.”

My head sunk into my chest. I couldn’t have thought less of her if her hope had been for a Mercedes Benz, a colour TV, and a night on the town.

Rebecca clearly had been expecting me to congratulate her on her compassion. “What?”

“It’s not right to kill animals.”

“We can’t survive on grass.”

“Animals do.”

“What, all of them? Bears don’t survive on grass.”

“And honey.”

Rebecca got in my face. “Not honey either. But salmon. And campers. Bears survive on meat, meat, meat.”

“Maybe on very rare occasions.”

Rebecca’s voice tuned in the know-it-all-ism of a science teacher arrogantly pacing before a chalkboard. “Hey, meat is vital. Back when you had your basic caveman, they were pretty stupid. They were always falling in tar pits, they didn’t have much of a language, they couldn’t figure out how to make tools. It wasn’t until they started eating cooked meat that the proteins did something to their brains, made them super intelligent like we are today. If you don’t eat meat, you’ll regress back to being a caveman.”

“Now, that’s not true,” I said.

“Pretty sure it is. I didn’t just make that all up.”

With a snort, Auntie Regina jostled in the tub, like a log bursting to the surface of a running lake. Rebecca and I bowed our heads, resuming our hopeful positions.

“Could you tell what our hopes were?” Rebecca asked, which was rude of her. We were supposed to be caring for Auntie Regina. Rebecca was being selfish to fixate on our hopes. For better or worse, they’d been made.

Auntie Regina opened one eye. “Oh yes, I felt those hopes hard. I could tell they were constructed with the utmost sincerity.” She traced one finger along the edge of her wound. “Burns from unworthy hopes fade quickly. I’ll be feeling the heat of yours for a long time.” Her eyelid rolled down, and new, deeper snoring commenced.

I believe Auntie Regina was truthful when she told us our hopes were worthy, and that our burns would linger a long time.

“Did we hope for the same thing?” Rebecca asked.

Silently, we came to a mutual agreement our contest had ended. Quiet so as not to wake her, we kissed Auntie Regina’s cheeks and left her to her slumber.

My sister did not use all the materials she gathered to build her hope. A few long, delicate bird bones leaned against one another on the nightstand in our shared bedroom. I thought about how those bones once soared through the air, dressed in feathers, adding a pinch of color to the sky. I’m glad Rebecca treated them with respect by not throwing them in the garbage, but hung on to them until their next purpose revealed itself.

We climbed into separate beds, too tired to brush our teeth. I couldn’t tell if the smell of goat meat came from between her teeth, or wafting off my fingers, the juices having soaked through my gloves.

“Do you think it’s fair Auntie Regina has to suffer all these burns for our hopes?” Rebecca asked.

“She didn’t have to come here if she didn’t want to. A woman of skills like Auntie Regina can do whatever she wants. I think she takes pride in the role nature has given her. This is her purpose.”

My certainty soothed Rebecca, as though she’d been questioning what gave her the right to make her hope. The relief made her tingle. I saw thin ripples fan out across her skin like when you drop a pebble into water.

“Oh,” Rebecca said. “I’m so warm all of a sudden. Like Mom complains about.”

The condition of her skin was contagious, and I too began to tingle. The sudden rush of warmth surprised me, and I kicked my blankets to the floor.

Given Rebecca’s hunger for blood, our hopes being complimentary seemed unlikely, yet Auntie Regina’s blessing poured over us both from head to toe. Never before had I felt closer to my sister. The warmth penetrated deeper into our skin, past the second layer into the third. We were burning. Our night clothes blew away from our bodies like dried corn silk. Neither white yarrow nor red bee balm could sooth us. Drop us into a vat of milk and it would evaporate into white steam.

My sister and I reached across the narrow gap between our beds to clasp hands. Our fingers became one mass, like two metals melted together. The heat of our bodies collided with the cool air in our bedroom, creating a mighty draft that lifted the bird bones on Rebecca’s nightstand, allowing them to take flight once more.

The pain was easy to endure, because we were grateful. We burned, filled with hope.

We burn still, to this very day.

Fiction Editor: Joyce Chng.

Copy Editor: Jamie Johnson.

Accessibility Editor: The Accessibility Department.