Blankets beckon the rain, and I indulge in a half-dozed dream state, giving my mind a good stretch into the far corners. I keep an ear on the weather: the cloud, the gloom, the shadow cast waking in a large bed alone, the mid-autumn grey, when it all sinks just a little. Things get quieter on porches. It’s just the two of us now and last night I tell her I’ve been thinking about making soup:
I’ll be at Wegmans soon following through with my word. I’ll be half stoned and wondering if I look intellectual. I’m buying tomato paste like I have it all together. She’s smoking cigarettes endlessly and thinking about the lesbian poet who still has custody of her early twenties.
Buying Local justifies the Merlot. Being mindful justifies everything. The onions always take longer than you think. I ponder my aesthetic while chopping celery. It gives me purpose, chopping carrots, knowing that I know how to feed myself. I pour a bit of red into the pot for our ancestors, bring it to a boil, then let it simmer for a half hour. I top off my second glass and think about going to yoga. I ask Rachel about yoga. She says come over, I’m hungry.
It’s like that most Thursdays. We discuss half-read books and remember tomatoes in the garden in August. The air feels like the end of a drought and I feel like a Simon and Garfunkel album. We eat soup in silence and think about our next president. I tell Rachel it needs more salt, but otherwise a decent soup. She says I know, I’m scared, too.