monday night dinner

I am standing in my kitchen, yellow and dimly lit. The potatoes have been on the stove for a few minutes. Dinner is in its beginning stages. I am spacing out. Today, for no particular reason, waiting for the shallow water to warm up to a boil has left me unreasonably irritated. The water seems to have a personal vendentta against me; liquid refuses to bubble no matter how far I turn the knob or crank the flame. If I had one wish in that moment, one opportunity to have anything in my wildest dreams, it would be for this water to fucking boil. For the heat to instantly arrive into my pot and provide the chemical reaction I need. Dinner could then progress, the night could move forward, I could be on to the next thing. The entirety of my being aches to come up with a way to speed along this process.

My mind wanders farther. I ponder best the way to pose all of this out loud. As a passing thought or a dramatic lament, or maybe a series of questions. But every curation of words I come up with leaves the same bad taste in my mouth. A moment of clarity arrives like that of a child realizing they've said something selfish or embarassing or stupid. Typically this clarity occurs while the words are already tumbling out of the childs mouth; luckily for me, it is not too late.

The overhead lightbulb reflects off the water and I think about the act of waiting. It is an integral part of existing. Time is essential for growth, for better or for worse. Our world move in cycles and seasons that spare no thought for a lack of patience. To deny anything its own process, sentient or not, is sacrilege to everything the universe requires. All of the beautiful things we admire in this world, be them nature or creativity or technology or love, take time. Humans are individually graced with our own precious and fleeting journies toward the best versions of ourselves. It is a complex glory. The paths found on these journies are scattered with invonceniences and lined with cruelty. But we must not be fooled by initial feelings. Time is often perceived as a nuisence but always proves itself vital. When something or someones time is cut short, we mourn what could have been. 

Like awaking from a dream, I finally feel steam rise up from the stovetop. Warmth moves over my face like gentle hands. I hear my partner and our dear roommate talking in the living room, patiently waiting for dinner. Neither of them have showed any discomfort in the waiting. I think about my partners laughter; it is the sound of gentle rain passing through the hallway. Us three will soon take our moment to share this meal together. I bring the water down to a simmer. I am worshipping in the church of boiled potatoes. I am grateful at a perfect pace.