optical man-hole

I didn’t really sleep last night, but I got a short nap in today. So, consequently, I’m not ready to fall asleep early today. 

Exhausted is my new normal but I’m not looking forward to trying to focus at work tomorrow. 

I can’t believe it’s been three months. I basically missed all of summer and it’s somehow fall already. 

I feel like I’m in some sort of Plato’s Cave thing like I think the glint of wiggly light on the surface of the water is all there is of the sun. Maybe an analogy to Snell’s window is there somewhere too but I’m too tired. 

I’m scared of the memories of the little things fading. Kissing you goodbye every morning. Debriefing and discussing board games on the car ride home. Your hand on my shoulder. Scratching your back before cutting my nails every time they got long. You telling me to go to bed and you would finish the chore I was doing. Feeling your heartbeat when I lay my head down on your chest. 

pantry

I can’t bring myself to look at the bottles of oils and sauces by my stove, or look in my pantry for long. I have intentional blindness when I do open the door; I glance past the shelves that have all the things you kept on hand, and look just at the shelves that you designated for Laurie snacks. Crackers and tiny soda cans and gatorade and clif bars and such.

First world problems, I know. I haven’t had to figure out how to cook anything yet, between friends and family feeding the kid and me. I heat leftovers or make a sandwich or cut a fruit or make a haphazard bowl of salad, but I don’t actually cook.

I had a repertoire of about 5 Mark Bittman recipes I could handle when you were in grad school and we tried not to go out for junk too much, but that was 7ish years ago and you didn’t like the butternut squash soup much anyway so let’s call it about 4 recipes. 

This was supposed to be your kitchen and I’m pissed you barely got to use it after waiting years to renovate it. I have my little nook where the coffeemaker and toaster oven live, and I’m supposed to be banned from messing with the rest except to clean. You wrote me detailed directions this spring when I had to preheat the oven for you, so that I wouldn’t get frustrated trying to figure out how to unlock it. Now I wish you’d left me detailed instructions for life.