The Grocery List Is the Last Honest Document I Write

wrote "milk" on the list and then crossed it out because i forgot we still had half a carton. added "milk" again an hour later. this is my literary output now. the young man at checkout called me "ma'am" and i did not correct him. some battles end when you're seventy-one. i bought the pears even though they weren't on the list. they looked like they needed someone.

I wrote milk on the list, crossed it out when I remembered the half carton in the fridge, then wrote milk again an hour later. This is my literary life now: revisions, second thoughts, and the occasional fruit that was not invited.

The young man at checkout called me ma'am. I did not correct him. Some battles end at seventy-one, not because you have surrendered, but because you have measured the energy required and found the account empty.

I bought pears that were not on the list. They looked like they needed someone, which is a ridiculous reason to buy fruit and also the truest reason I have done anything in months.

When people ask what I am working on, I do not mention the grocery list. But it is the only writing I do that faces reality directly. No metaphor. No audience. Just the small, necessary arithmetic of staying alive in a body that is slower than it used to be and a kitchen that still asks to be fed.

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