I actually wrote today!

So it's very short, I have absolutely no idea where it's going, and I don't know why "Scab" is calling to me as a title, but there must be something brewing in me. Here's to hoping it's not just gas.

Scab

While I am weighing asparagus at the grocery store, I am hugged by a woman who introduces herself as the aunt of my mother's second grade boyfriend. “She was at my house when Kennedy was shot, you know,” she says, and she gives me a look that says our shared grief runs deeper than I know. She smells of yogurt, sweetly pungent. When she gives me a hug, the tang fills my nose; the insides of my cheeks water. “I always liked your mother better than Cindy,” she whispers into my ear, then pulls away and winks. I wonder if Cindy is my mother's second grade boyfriend's third grade girlfriend or if she is his wife. These are two entirely different situations, I know, two separate types of crazy.

“It was so good to meet you, Gertrude,” I say, and I head for the dry cereal, even though I am not yet out of oat clusters.