This and Every Life

by Emmy Sanders

I nod along as one of the older men discusses the importance of the newspaper, not disagreeing with him yet angry, all the same, that so few are allowed the opportunity to read. Should knowledge and wealth not be shared equally? What benefit is it to have extra food on the table when others have not enough to get by? Should not all men and women learn the alphabet? Are we not stronger if we gain wisdom from all?

Catherine, of course, is absent, not allowed to share food with the rest of us. Is she not family? Does she not deserve to eat at the table considering all she does for us? By the time the sky is dark, I feel nearly ill. It’s in my head; I know it is. But I don’t understand the motives of men. Greed and pride and malice, even, to stand atop the weak in order to feel strong. What would happen if those at the bottom stood up? The thought nearly has me laughing. Surely, the men up high would topple.

One Sunday while we’re basking with our toes in the creek, Jasper says, “Why do they say it’s wrong? The two of us.” The sun overhead feels far too bright for this conversation. “Because their god said so.” Jasper’s retort is full of fire. “But he didn’t. His teachings were written by men. And men are fallible.”

“It does not feel wrong to me. It feels like the most perfect thing. Why do people fear what they cannot control?” “I think you may have answered your question,” I say, shifting to run my fingers along his arm. “Powerful men seek to command. Even when it comes to love.”

It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Morris. Thank you for having me in your home.”

Ms seems out of sync with the time frame. Mrs. or even Mistress would fit better.

The lamb Catherine prepared is delicious. I pick at it as pleasantries are discussed.

How, exactly, does one discuss a pleasantry?

“A poet,” I tell him. “Such beautiful words.” He all but cackles before his voice falls soft and solemn, as if reciting verses. “‘The strongest affection and utmost zeal should, I think, promote the studies concerned with the most beautiful objects. This is the discipline that deals with the universe’s divine revolutions, the stars’ motions, sizes, distances, risings and settings…for what is more beautiful than heaven?’”

I stare at Ezra, shocked. “Did you just quote Copernicus? He was an astronomer, you know. Not a poet.” Ezra’s smirk is devastating. “And yet his words are poetry to you.”

“There’s a name for that, you know,” I tell him, my heart so full it’s a wonder I can speak through it. “When two stars are drawn together. Their energy shared.” His head lolls my way. “Yeah? And what’s that?” I can picture the blast of light in my mind’s eye clearly. A collapse of two stars and an explosion so great it can be seen across the universe, causing ripples in the very fabric of space-time. Cataclysmic. Ruinous and miraculous. No words better describe what Ezra is to me. There’s a smile on my face when I answer my friend, the world around us dark. “Supernova.”

That twin star collision can make a supernova, but that's not the primary explanation given for a supernova. Just a single star can go supernova all by itself.

“Hey,” I say lightly, wanting to pull him away from the storm that awaits us. “Remember the first time I showed up at your place, your old place, when Naveen was over?” He snorts. “Oh, God. He freaked.” “He tried to tell me he was your plumber. As if he’d have needed to be in his briefs to look under your sink.”

I blink rapidly, trying to orient myself.

Yes!! Three cheers for an English speaker who knows that "orient" is the base word. NOT orientate.

I love that man more than I’ll ever love anybody, my own daughter withstanding. Why can’t love, in any form, be enough? People want to shape us into something we’re not because they can’t see the beauty there. They don’t understand it, and I ache with that knowledge. Because don’t they realize? Love is boundless. It’s immeasurable and immense. Beauty on its own. It’s the reason a person’s eyes soften. It’s why we go to great lengths just to make someone smile. Romance, sex, friendship, even, are all secondary to what love is at its core. It’s the very makeup of our being. It’s our essence, reaching out to another and finding our reflection in kind. Love is who we are. What we have to give.

Except for the Trumps and Heritage and other pathetic stunted assholes out there whose sole focus and what passes for love is power and money. I suddenly see the point of Jesus' sermons, and the symbolism of the golden calf vs love.

Grayson places the pan near the top of the oven and closes the door. “Ten minutes. After that, we find out our fate.”

Horse. Shit. Meringue shell is not done in ten minutes. Is needs to stay in the oven at very low heat , I can't recall now for how long, then you turn the oven off and leave the meringue in - for hours if I remember correctly. Otherwise you've just toasted the top of the meringue, and the middle is still soft, as in topping for a key lime or other custard pie. This is a ding. How long would it take you to look at a recipe? I used to make meringue cookies for Christmas gifts (and for myself: I love the things) but I've fallen out of the habit as all the people who loved them passed away. Too much hassle to make them just for myself.

“Go on. Try it.” Exhaling, I press my fork against the meringue. It breaks apart just as it should.

Crispy meringue after a ten-minute bake. Did the author, and any beta or proofreaders, or ARC readers, if any such existed, even bother to read past the first ten minutes in the oven? Someone obviously read the ingredients and prep, but that's like following a recipe to the point where it says lower heat and simmer for X amount of time, and just calling it done as soon as the high heat period is done. (From an old comic book, said of a wild-caught and novice-prepped and roasted turkey served up to friends: "What did I stuff it with? It wasn't empty")

He nods, giving me the ghost of a smile. It isn’t long before my nurse returns, and Caspian and I are heading out of the hospital. When he opens the back door of an ordered ride, I raise an eyebrow.

Not like any hospital I've ever had the delight of visiting. More like hours. Many of them. Add up all the hours waited for hospital discharge to actually happen, I could have a damn movie marathon---and that's only half dozen hospital stays in total. Is Britain a hospital paperwork-free zone? I wanna move there! Hell, I wanna move there anyway- or someplace semi-civilized with no MAGA in the works. (Trump is just the finger puppet with those Heritage ***' fingers up his ass making him move.)