Slow it down
. I read somewhere that baking is the new antidepressant. I’m not sure if that’s true, but I’ve not slept because there are hot knives embedded in my neck and shoulder and I need to do something to take my mind off the pain and off the ruminations.
. I eat the last peach. Not with a knife like I had the others. I eat it like I did when I was a child. When I didn’t care about sticky arms and sticky cheeks. I eat it at the counter, down to the pit, and leave the empty fruit bowl where it is, waiting to be filled again.
. I won’t go to work. I believe in rest. I believe in pie. I also believe in ice and so press shoulder blade against the cold pack and think of the secrets I’ve promised to keep.
. 3 pounds of plums. The word cardamom satisfies me.
. And so the fruit is sliced, 1/3 inch thick, and lemon is zested and squeezed, and pistachios are pulled from shells and chopped into smaller pieces, and I do not turn on the radio. There is the hum of the a/c and through the window panes the razor-buzz of cicadas. And this is fine.
. … out on the blank sea…