Everyone eats oatmeal differently. I used to make mine wirh nuts and raisins, and protein powder. Then I was content just to read Galway Kinnell’s “Oatmeal” on occasion. I am back to eating oatmeal, but it is at a cafe where they make quinoa porridge. It is made with coconut milk, topped with chopped dates, cashews, flecks of sea salt, lemon zest, and pickled strawberry slices. In the summer, the chef sometimes sprinkles lavender buds on it, or sprigs of dill. Today, my porridge was topped by sunny flowers of what I was dill. Small things of fortitude in these uncertain times, when anxieties settle aimlessly in the stomach.
That was written a day ago.This “today,” I am not eating porridge, but peering at the dawn through panels of curtain I will soon part. Part means both to divide and to leave. Earlier, woken by frisky cat, I looked at the drops of stars in the night sky. There, another day.