Grocery List
A carton of milk, loaf of bread, stick of butter. That's it, right? She thought for sure it was carton but Jamie thinks it's quart. Huh, maybe there's a regional difference. Not that it matters. It's been floating through her head every time she remembers another item to add to the grocery list. The constantly changing, ever growing, all encompassing list that at some point will be fulfilled. Maybe today, if she feels courageous enough to go outside. Get all kitted up. It's like snow days when she was 5: layer after layer, scarf, hat, goggles, gloves. Just in case. Then inevitably she'd have to pee. Mom would get so angry. She'd hold it in sometimes only to suffer through the consequences in the minus stupid Quebec winter. Freezing and damp and crusty. To look at her hands you'd swear it was mid January in Saskatoon. Chapped and cracked from relentless washing and wiping. No point in moisturizing as no sooner does she repair the damage then she touches her face or a door handle or reaches for her keys and back to the sink she goes.
Weeks have turned into months and into a new season. There's birdsong at all hours, magnolias and cherry blossoms explode like a west coast invasion and she's still not allowed to gather outside. Quinoa. That's right, she needs to add quinoa. That ginormous bag from the big box store has finally come to it's end and now she's into the rice. So much cooking. Chop and prep and boil and bake, repeat, freeze; trying to manage pantry space like a second bedroom. Every inch counts.
And for what? She can always make do. Throw some cereal in a bowl, call it a day. It's the lack of purpose to that though that makes her sad. A sense of defeat, a helplessness washes over her come mid afternoon, when two meals are down and dinner is still three hours away. Now what? Housekeeping, bill keeping, project making, long lost friends communicating with so little to say except, How Are You Doing, Really? Hard to avoid calls since no one has anywhere else to be and none of her friends have jobs anymore. Maybe never will again since everyone's work involves intimate contact with other human beings. Sharing the same space and air and breath and intent. In order to survive, let alone thrive.
A carton of milk, loaf of bread, stick of butter.
And quinoa. Don't forget the quinoa.
Weeks have turned into months and into a new season. There's birdsong at all hours, magnolias and cherry blossoms explode like a west coast invasion and she's still not allowed to gather outside. Quinoa. That's right, she needs to add quinoa. That ginormous bag from the big box store has finally come to it's end and now she's into the rice. So much cooking. Chop and prep and boil and bake, repeat, freeze; trying to manage pantry space like a second bedroom. Every inch counts.
And for what? She can always make do. Throw some cereal in a bowl, call it a day. It's the lack of purpose to that though that makes her sad. A sense of defeat, a helplessness washes over her come mid afternoon, when two meals are down and dinner is still three hours away. Now what? Housekeeping, bill keeping, project making, long lost friends communicating with so little to say except, How Are You Doing, Really? Hard to avoid calls since no one has anywhere else to be and none of her friends have jobs anymore. Maybe never will again since everyone's work involves intimate contact with other human beings. Sharing the same space and air and breath and intent. In order to survive, let alone thrive.
A carton of milk, loaf of bread, stick of butter.
And quinoa. Don't forget the quinoa.
This is a great stream of consciousness piece. Gives a good illustration of our busy, flitting minds and the way they change course, pace and mood on a dime. Thanks for sharing!
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