by Jessica Terson
December 31, 2017
Sifting the flour. Squeezing the lever once. And then waiting. For a moment, it is winter again. I take my finger and make snow angels in the little blue bowl.
After you died, they said the only thing to do was keep on living. Which meant something like washing the dishes. Or mowing the lawn. Little things I could write on a list and scratch off. So I wrote buy a liter of whiskey. Sift an entire bag of flour. Bake absolutely nothing.
After you died, I gathered all the glasses from the cupboard and filled each one with varying degrees of water. I took a spoon, and in the darkness, clinked my xylophone of glass. The only thing to do is keep on living.
Tomorrow, I will look out the window. Or smoke a cigarette without flicking my thumb, so a tube of ash juts from my mouth. Little things that I can write in my journal to, later, remember my life.
Do you see how the snow is still falling? An endless sifting of the clouds? The quiet way the world shreds itself apart?
Each day, the to-do list growing longer. Mix one part water, one part flour.
Use the handmade paste to glue something, anything, together. Let the finger pads stick to each material object, as if the world wanted to be held.