I went to the store tonight to buy some kale and raspberry leaf tea at about ten pm. I decided to make some salmon soup, and the kale I got from the co-op was filled with tiny white spiders that spilled like powdery dust onto the kitchen counter. I'm not hungry, and I'm not going to eat, but I thought I would chop and stir and fold together so that maybe I can fold together, too.
The tea was just because.
Now the rain is coming down in droves. It hits the skylights like tiny hammers on thin tin. Little drops of water are sprayed in from the fan that sits in the window to keep things cool. Now I can't tell the difference between the sound of the soup cooking on the stove and the sound of the rain.
There is something soothing to me about being able to buy some tea and some kale and make hot soup on the stove at night. I'm not sure why. Just a way to be and know that I am alive.
The soup is good and Mark got me some small chocolates with chile in them that I think maybe I will eat, after all. I just keep remembering Granddad when I was a little girl and he was a big man with his corduroy pants and his dirty shirts and his garage filled with tools and some colored wire. I don't want these to become memories like sacks filed away at room temperature. I want them to be hot and warm and filled with blood and all things alive. I want them to move inside of me and grow because he is alive and growing and so am I.
I am going to try to believe tonight that the world is round and things come back. All of them, even the people. I am going to try to laugh and relax and eat some chocolate and let these things go. Let my face fall and my teeth unclench.
The sky, it's blue and black and indigo and looks like that little toy Grandmother and Granddad had in the upstairs bedroom. It was blue water filled with black sand wedged between glass, and you could tilt it one way or another and make a desert landscape with a night sky.
I had so many dreams inside of that place.
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