Thank you for sharing, Gib.
I burned my finger making dinner.
I couldn’t be bothered with the mitts that cover and protect so completely.
I grabbed a dish rag and pulled the piping tray of potatoes out of the oven, with nowhere for it to go. They were sticking to the foil and needed to be scraped free.
I could only hold balance so long as I push and tug from east to north and over easy.
The rag is bound to slink away unnoticed.
When it goes and the metal scars a line into my finger or thumb or the fleshy part between, I pulled my hand away from the tray I was holding without ever letting go.
I cursed the tray and the rag, the husband who isn’t even here but will enjoy the dinner later without giving a single thought to the balancing act it took to make. I cursed myself for all the steps that led me to this moment, and for all the times I read this chapter without learning the lesson.
When the hangry subsides, I sit with the faint pulse begging to be heard and cared for.
It says, “ Be grateful for this burn. It comes with a body to live in. It came from having a home and a stove, and electricity that hasn’t been turned off. There were groceries to cook, and your husband will come home to you. You would waste your seconds, without this burn reminding you to be present and alive. “
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