Oh, I should have written this morning . . .
I gently set the paper bag with the five meals of black beans and rice on the floor in front of the passenger’s seat. Ah! I’ve forgotten my hat, so I run back inside. Now I’m ready to go, if a little irritated because I meant to go earlier and now it’s almost sunset and I never found this community fridge the last time I tried to make a delivery there and had to go to the one on Hickory. That time, I didn’t have the correct address, but now I do, so I head up Broad and turn onto Washington. Orange cones block the entire right line, I can barely make out the addresses. And now I’ve passed where it should be.
Awake before Tim, I make the coffee, start the bread dough, decide to wait until he’s up to start the black beans, lie down on the couch with Pierrot, Mon Ami.
Time to trim this pothos before I bring it inside. I snip back most of its vines, toss them behind the holly bush. Once I’ve gotten all the plants inside, I sweep the porch and realize how much nicer the porch looks without so much leafy clutter.
Cousin Lily calls. She wants to know if it’s going to snow here. Nothing but rain there in Charleston. She’s annoyed that she’s been placed in AP Human Geography. She wants to go to Yale. “I guess it will snow there. I hate snow.”
At the first stop sign I come to, the stack of meals topples and the bag rips when I grab it. Why am I doing this?
Greta and Jean stop by for the container of beans I saved for them. They tell me about the apart-hotel where they stayed in D.C., near a psychiatric hospital, how the homeless patients screamed all night in the street.
The fridge on Hickory is well-stocked: bag lunches, yogurts, fruits. Back home, I leave a message in the mutual aid group, because there are always people who are hungry. I’m tired. I think of the volunteer sunflower that came up in the raised bed. I hope it survives the freeze.