On my mother’s first birthday since she lost her mind, I stare into the blue light of the fridge. I’m starved. My eyes first land on a big, softening persimmon. I take it out and cut it into chunks and let my fingers get sticky with juice.
Then I decide to slice up one of the cucumbers I have to prepare for later. I listen for the thwack, thwack, thwack of the knife hitting the plastic cutting board wondering if it will stir my mother, but the apartment doesn’t move. On the cold cucumber rounds I smear cream cheese from a plastic tub and eat them cupped like chilled tacos.These days my mother sleeps late. Till after eight some days. It should be a good thing.