She has to pick up the kids from Little Lukes on First
Street at 2:30
And hopefully swing by the Farmer’s Market in the Commons in
time for some
Fresh corn and maybe an autumnal squash if it looks good
The radio announces another hot day tomorrow as the Indian
Summer seems to
Drone on but she thinks that is a racist term to use and
wonders
What the Six Nations might say
The house has no lights on as she pulls in but quickly the
smell of simmering
Vegetables and crisp spices fill her nostrils and she is
stirring the Martha Stewart
Pot while the kids argue over Spongebob Squarepants
The light changes in the room and for her a black hole of
endless nothing appears where the zucchini she is chopping briskly on the
wooden block is supposed to be And no sound but a rushing wind while the
kitchen floor rises up and goes from
Alabaster to blushing pink…her grandmother—long buried in
Oakwood Park Cemetery on County Road 36—calls her to the table for supper and
she goes out in the soft white light towards the familiar smell of warm bread.
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