Today I decided to make a pasta sauce, marinara with mushrooms. I thought I had all the ingredients: onion, garlic, fresh mushrooms, tomato paste and sauce, whole canned and crushed tomatoes, my special spices, a little "airport bottle" of cabernet.
I chopped up the onion and started to heat the olive oil, went to the basement pantry to find my cans of tomatoes, the ones I remember hauling in from my car on a cold, cold day not long ago.
Nowhere. They are no. where. I have some sauce and paste, but the big cans of tomatoes must have stayed on the grocery store shelves.
I forget myself.
I have forgotten myself. I used to be one way and now I'm another, and when I look at my reflection in the mirror or my cat's eyes or a friend's face, I don't know who I am, though I feel as if I turned into an ugly creature who can't quite surface all the way and can't quite stay under, a caricature of my old self.
The husband of a dear writer friend of mine posted a video of my friend and her daughters singing lustily at the dinner table. The joy and energy shimmered me out of my funk for a few seconds but also shot me back into memory of dinnertimes in my childhood. Dinners for my family were rarely about the food. Or about joy. I was not allowed to sing at the dinner table. I joke and say it must have been my voice, but I have a decent singing voice. Rules. Deadlines. Vinegar. Chipped beef on toast.
I was not planning to leave the house today except to take the garbage out to the alley for tomorrow's pick up, but I have a chopped onion waiting to go into a sauce, and already my mouth craves cooked tomatoes, so I'll shower and dress and go to the store for big cans, though now the sauce won't be done until nearly 9 p.m.
I simmer things for a long time.
I simmer for a long time.
Today, I did not
and I didn't that, either,
nor did I.
Inertia? Apathy? Depression? Loneliness?
If I had done one of the "not dones," maybe I would feel less like I'm drowning.
I love and I'm loved.
There. I'll end on that thought.