It’s dinner time.
Darkness surrounds the house, though small pockets of light tremble softly from a candle or two.
The cold is everywhere. Unexpectedly so, considering I am surrounded by walls. It slips through windows, settles into blankets, follows us from room to room.
I live in a moment in time, in another world really, one I did not choose but learned to love because it answered something simple and human in me: the need to feel safe, wanted, held.
And then, a sound.
I know it instantly.
A garlic clove rubbed against hot, hardened toast. Then lard. Then salt.
It’s dinner time.
The sound lingers in the quiet.
The smell of garlic stays on my fingers.
I can sleep now.
