I stood in the kitchen, because the table was too far away and the trees in the neighbor's yard are pretty, and ate a warm buttermilk biscuit, split, with unsalted butter (we are out of salted) sprinkled with kosher salt and drizzled with honey from the back of the cabinet that's crystallized a bit and crunchy, and then another one with butter and salt and raspberry jam, and the biscuit layers shattered softly on my tongue, and the new leaves on the oak tree next door were yellowgreen screaming with aliveness, and the thought passed through me, "will I look back on this moment as the worst of times or the best of times?" and also, it was a goddamn transcendent fucking biscuit and this apocalypse can't take that from me.
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AuthorBitter Water
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. Archives
June 2019
Categories© Francie Nevill and Every Sweet Thing, 2017.
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