Wednesday August 7, 2019
Make a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich. Cut it in half, diagonally. Leave it on the plate for a few hours. You aren’t hungry. Haven’t been for almost two weeks. Funny how appetite becomes the barometer for feelings, at least in your family.
Find the sandwich, only a bite taken. The contents have seeped into the bread. The bread it turning hard. Take another bite.
Phone rings and you ignore it. You can’t bear to put something on your voice, the connective tissue to the truth. You would have to if you answered, no matter who it was, let alone Miranda.
You open up the sandwich and run your finger through the jam. You lick your finger. You say a small prayer to the strawberry seeds.