“What business did she have being hopeful?”
— — — Nnedi Okorafor
— — — Who Fears Death
A week into my dude’s recovery from stroke, I’m way too tired to go to the grocery store, much less cook whatever I end up with after a zombie walk up and down the aisles. So I window shop inside our fridge. The light comes on. Yogurt. Potatoes. A pot of spaghetti. Thank goodness for the friend who made the sapghetti. Did I thank her enough when she brought it over? Should I thank her again? I space out, staring at the light bulb till my eyes fuzz over. I wonder if that bulb is the healing light I’m being held in. I wish it were a casserole.