Monday’s potato salad sits solid as a stone in Friday’s stomach. Lunch, fast and easy. Productive too, cleaning out a refrigerator shelf as items empty out and fill a hunger as hot as the storage cold. What, about 40 degrees? Body-warmed to 98.6. Exactly, 98.6.
Transitions in space and time. Here now, then gone and there instead. Changed too in form. Potatoes, onions, olives, eggs chopped smaller than a knife could ever do. Grinding teeth like blender blades that smooth and liquify–the number ten button on the Waring.
Did the refrigerator feel as satisfied when full as I? Does it feel empty now, just as I did then?
(Note: I know it’s weird. I don’t care. The thought happens, and all I can do is write it down.)
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology