I remember it’s the end of April and think back four years ago, when we came back from Germany.
Dad retreats to the den while the chicken marinates, lights a stick of incense, and helps the dog get a bone out of the basket.
They said everyone needs to work from home and the vibe on my floor was a kind of evacuation mode in slow-mo.
The rain fell so hard I stood in the doorway watching it, letting in the cool, clean air.
I remembered the smoked turkey we had in the meat locker from Easter and started fantasizing about eating a leg, just standing in the kitchen and taking it by hand.
Upstairs someone was either crying or laughing.
The butcher’s knife slipped off the edge of an onion and into my fingertip and somehow just the idea of my blood on the cutting board seemed to freak everyone out, for fear I was infected.