Categories
Life

Summer Love in the Kitchen

THIS. This was a slice of my life on that day in that year. Reading it again brings a smile.

-AS

Summer Love in the Kitchen
  • Originally posted in a 6s community on August 12, 2011 at 5:02pm

Za’atar and sunflower oil dapple the taut breasts, while a summer garden concoction brews nearby. Chopping takes time away from writing and sketching in my hardbound sketch book, the one with the incredible painted peacock on the covers, and so I settle whole tomatoes and halved peppers in the bottom of a pan and layer with chunks of onion, crookneck squash, butternut squash and zucchini, covering at last with a tomatilla-chile-jalepeno salsa.

Before dinner, the garden sauce will be thickened in the blender, the boys will fall in love again with Wall-e and Eve, and I will fall in love again with them, with my life, with myself.

I can feel the morning glory vines climbing over brick and wood, birthing new violet trumpets whose seeds I will not consume but will know I could if I wanted to. The sun distances herself from us, slowly, almost imperceptibly, but I know she is choosing little by little another slice of the world to bless and hate, to consume and adore.

Soon I’ll hear the bass pulse within the garage, but I’ll wait until the door stops short at the end of the gold chain that restrains his entrance and the three-year-old’s slick getaway; with every step and glance, I will draw out the reunion, the coming home, the luxury of summer we’ll visit upon each other after the boys retire and before the sun rolls away.

Categories
Life

Son Survival and the Rankling Sun

This little ditty arose from little boys and hot days.

-AS

Son Survival and the Rankling Sun
  • Originally posted on a 6s community on July 15, 2011 at 6:29pm

How many minutes would it take to die alone by the way of a tantrum-throwing sun?

Brittle shrieks rise from the scalded earth with a defiance so suffocating and a stubbornness so clayed.

The temperature of rage will not be loosed with the breath of a kiss or the tears of a goddess.

Ash prevails over pumping life, filling up the viscous places until the sun brings forth his wrath from her center.

Only the fallout grants shade; only the desolation of desperate power returns the sun to his formerly nourishing nature.

Cloaked in darkness, driven beneath life, forced to avoid the exacting face of a light too close, too bright, too sharp, we itch in our skin knowing the minutes tick-tock until the rankling son drives us back to his celestial brother.

Exit mobile version