buttered toast

In the morning, there were two calls, one because a child puked all over the playground and another because the other busted his lip. Everyone is crying, or bleeding, or both. Afterwards, I buy the bread I meant to buy last week. I tuck one kid into the couch with the remote and a blue plastic bowl. I get to work—for there is always something to do: reply to emails, answer calls, soak dishes, fold laundry, pick up toys, post memes, donate, click on headlines, bypass the videos, quietly rage, clench my cold fear, wonder why. Meanwhile, I cut a thick slice of sourdough. With scalded fingertips, I douse the toasted version in butter and sprinkle sea salt on top. I send a terrible picture to my friend, the baker, and tell her it’s the best part of my day. I look out the window and try to make a different type of list: the bright daffodils, the little candle lit, the sunshine on my face, the feeling of being needed or held, or both.