Pepper
The worry of splinters every time I twist. But a few more should do it. Steam licks the hob lights, I’ve left the fan off so that it warms my house at the same time. Winter hacks. Cold feet waiting eagerly for hot soup. I wonder where the lid that fit this pot has gone. Instead the oversized one drips condensation onto my stove top. The black glass looks up at me sadly, wearing his new stains, waiting for the smelly cloth to smear his face again. The cycle of life is more about cleaning and dirt than life and death. Endless cleaning, just so we can dirty it again. Carrots floating just beneath shiny oil, twisting playfully in the rising bubbles. I can barely smell the soup because my nostrils have been scalded by the steam for too long, but I hope it smells good. I lean back wearily against the cold marble counter, feel the weight lift off my hips and a pain shoot through my back. Age comes for us all. From seed to dust. Boing to thud. Swimming in the soup of life. The steam has cleared my nose at least. I think about a hot tub and the irreplaceable feeling of being caressed by water that’s just a little bit too hot. To be a carrot in soup.













