War in the news. Hunger in the news.
What of the following could stand up to that?
The waitress set down the plates. Car noise rolled in from the street. The rotisserie
chicken so spicy and sweet, my eyes watered. After I’d finished my own plate, I started
eating off of Mark’s. The waitress came from the kitchen, laughed as if startled to see
what she never thought she’d see. I cringed, blushed, though I went right on stabbing at
his plate. Over and over, I lifted the fork to my mouth, shameless.
Around the corner to the nursery. Aisle after pleasantly messy aisle of sedum, spiral
rush, mugo pine, more sedum. High sun on my forehead, seabreeze on my arms, legs,
chest…. The weather of my childhood, the weather of the shore house. (She came back.)
Then it occurred to me: so this is what it’s like to be alive again. It hadn’t even occurred
to me I hadn’t been alive.
Yesterday just happened to be her birthday. My mother’s first birthday since the day of her death.