Today, words are as hard to salvage as the last few drops of honey from a jar. Some days are like that.
My large, orange tabby cat is resting on my lap, and he is warm. He purrs sweetly, yet his tail beats me with agitation. My cat is schizophrenic. Some cats are like that.
Today, I cannot win a single battle joined with carefully weighed vegetables and perfectly portioned protein and carbohydrates, as is my practice. So, I am eating a bowl of Rice Chex for lunch at 2 P.M. because it seems like the end of the world has come, and vegetables no longer have a hallowed place among men. Let the dishes lie in the sink, like the corpses of forgotten men after a cataclysmic war. Let the laundry I have put on again to fluff sink back into wrinkles like the faces of aged men, hardened by loss.
Tonight I am serving the family tuna fish sandwiches. Some dinners are like that.
Pray, all of you soiled by the ashes of battle, that tomorrow will be a better day.