apologizing.
Inside lives my three-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Marin, who believes pancakes are a food group. I work twelve-hour shifts in the intensive care unit downtown, sometimes sixteen. I can recite eight patients’ medication schedules from memory and still forget to eat lunch.
I’ve watched people pass quietly.
My family taught me how.
That’s a joke I only make while driving home alone, where nobody has to decide whether to laugh.
Our life is small and intentional.
Daycare. Work. Pancakes. The library on Saturdays.
First there was rent. Then somehow a mortgage.
