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Miles Is Drowning

Miles Is Drowning

So this is what drowning feels like. The rainclouds had opened above me, pouring down cold sheets as I jogged the two miles to Green’s Pizza. The rain thumped against my black raincoat like the last beats of a dying heart. I’d never felt more smothered, so completely drowning in everything. It was as if nature itself had bent its powers to fit the mood of my soul…

Times Sir?

Times Sir?

Rain. Driving, pouring, numbing, tiring rain. Rain that did not freshen the heart of flower or tree, for neither were to be seen amid the cobblestoned thoroughfares of the great city. Rain that could not wash away the unconquerable coal dust that affixed itself to every surface, but rather smeared and shifted its sooty patterns, as a finger would play with pastels. Rain that drummed its ceaseless rhythm onto carriage tops, bonnets, and umbrellas that chose to brave the elements on a cold London morning.

Home

Home

Two teaspoons of cinnamon. I measure the rust-colored spice and dump it into the bowl. It sits like a tiny brown hill atop the mountain of flour and sugar. Baking has become my therapy these past few weeks. Tipping ingredients into measuring spoons and cups gives my anxious hands something to do other than pulling at my hair.

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