Mosquito
I spent several days irate last week, as my ability to participate in a program of my design was negated by my inability to participate with the program; a tautological negation. I should have been there. I felt alternately like a loud child in a tantrum, and a subdued woman scorned. As the anger metabolized, however, and I found myself less attached to the event—with distance, with time, with the energy of 6+ billion other people on earth—I found myself eating food in a way that could be deemed either therapeutic or disordered. And I never want to take food for granted, and I do not want to make fun of food, and I will not always make the most delicious cakes, and some things just taste different because of place and some things taste different because of the times. Not you.
I have a mosquito bite on my wrist where my watch usually sits and if I can’t know the time, soon I will forget it altogether. Let me become food.
