contemplating death at the kitchen table
You know darling, the kitchen table was never the place for your bloodstained newspapers and the counter was not intended to hold up the dead weight of your shell - especially after having been so mighty while keeping up the heads and hearts of everyone who loved you, everyone who came by to make sure you were alright leading up to the end. You know Darling, I never did approve of you writing your goodbyes at the kitchen table, even if you were drinking orange juice and munching on fresh blackberries. I know it's a little late to demand one, but I'd be grateful to have an apology slip from between the sheets of your empty, ghostlike bed.
