Stories for Everyone

The biscuits sigh happily in the oven. The jam bubbles on the fire and its steam frizzles my hair. I peek at the pastry that insists on not growing, as if it were trying my patience and hope. On the kitchen countertop, the recipe book whispers its secrets.

I feel the pulse of the city. I feel its pain, its mismatches, its impatient love. I live it every day. An ordinary life that I try to put white cuffs on. Although suffering is not a flower, it needs to be handled just as gently.