oh, life.

Last weekend I would have written I'd never grabbed precious time for myself as greedily as I had last Saturday, a sunny one, and the last one before my mother went to hospital. One of the best days of my life, like a well-risen full loaf of bread, cut into and finished with awareness of the good I'm making use of. She made me a cup of coffee with cardamom and then we worked in the garden for long hours, leaving traces of cardamom aroma behind us, in the strawberry beds. The soil was spring soft and our muscles didn't ache afterwards.
And then there was waiting for the surgery and the three of us - she, dad and me – wouldn't fall asleep at night and during the day we made endless phone calls: what did she say, how is she, what did they say, what does it mean, does it hold any promises. And on Thursday morning they took out the first place I found myself at on this earth – the only safe one. It's less than half an hour, and the piece cut out is really tiny, they had said. And on Sunday she began to worry about us all over again.

On my cranberries pack it says any refuses should be sent back to the producer. Below which they give you their e-mail address.

Last night I cried so hard I thought I'd throw up.

I texted her saying I felt sad. She wrote back from her hospital bed that I had to eat a beet this week, necessarily.