after dinner.

waking up to the sun, black jeans, a donut, and a long conversation about death. text messages, like tiny diaries. good music in exchange for a headache. work on the back burner, like sauce for tonight's spaghetti. the asparagus was fucking sour but my dad and I ate it anyway while we talked about earth shelter homes and his philosophy of interpretation of art and I coughed when he jumped from my drawing of a flower to the moment you miss a note in band class and you can hear it but no one else did. thirty years later, here we are: the senior and junior of life, the before and after, sharing a meal and a crappy beer to wash the day down. 

Karen CygnarowiczComment