every time i make pasta i think of my father.

or, to be more specific:
every time i strain out the water after cooking pasta and the steam rises to fill in my glasses, i think of my father. (now that i'm dependent on my glasses i am beginning to understand what a pain it is.)

it is the essential recurring memory of my childhood. pasta. dad. glasses like white cartoon eyes suspended in front of his face. i am watching him from the living room and he's the strongest man in the world, carrying that massive bowl of pasta, pouring out the terrifyingly hot water. plaid button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up and beard still mostly black. i set the knives blades-facing-in:

my father is brave and blind; i am a child. he sent me this picture of home:



these days, his beard is mostly white, when he wears it. i'm not carrying any foxtails, in my hair or my socks or my boots. i was talking to carrot-boy last week and he didnt know what foxtails were.

in the meantime:
pasta. wine. supervillian regenerate! back to work!

summer is at the edge of my brain and i cant wait to fall of into it.