No Anger, Just Pasta

I sip my coffee as pasta replaces my usual thoughts because I am in love. It’s wonderful not to be angry about figure skating in the morning sun.

Today brings us one day closer to being a year since the DC plane crash. I’d been counting down the days as if it were something to be excited about, except it’s dread when I remember the terror of losing part of a community I called mine, and a reminder of what skating had done to me as a child. No amount of anger will bring back the past to save those skaters from death, nor will it allow me to save my childhood. No, because tomorrow he and I plan to make it from scratch: flour, eggs, and salt; we’ll then knead the dough assertively, stretch it thin, roll it up, and chop it into fettuccini strands. For our choice of sauce: creamy and spicy. I’ll be sure to eat it with delight.

This love I am in is different; my heart is in no emergency; I can undress without embarrassment and feel like a woman, in any light and any amount of clothing, in my forgetfulness and word stutters, he loves me more. Even after what skating gave me, it could never stop me from loving back.