~ after Ross Gay (Inciting Joy) Come in— I baked cookies last night, a swirl of toffee and chocolate that makes each look like a two-toned planet. There's coffee and a selection of tea, and shelves of books that need dusting and rearranging. In other words, you can sit with me while I brace myself for the next delivery of bad news. Or you can help me figure out a new arrangement for the living room furniture, where the cushions are soft and thick enough to cover my face when I feel like sobbing or screaming. Enough light falls on the monstera, but there's still a cozy spot to read by the window in the evening. Yes, I used to shut the door in your face every time you came calling, but I read an essay that said you like potlucks, dancing, and bonfires—Unbelievable, I thought at first; until I remembered the night our neighbor invited us to her home to meet an honest- to-gosh shaman. I admit I went, hoping perhaps he'd see clear through to my wounded heart and give me some spell or powerful talisman to right it. No such luck. But someone lit a fire and we sat in a circle, making messy cracker sandwiches of melted chocolate and marshmallows. Soon, we were telling stories of our lives from when we arrived in this country, as well as from the time before. Someone passed bowls of soup around. At the end, he had each of us lay a pebble or twig or flower in the middle of a bandanna. No one had to explain anything; everything just seemed to make sense. I
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