She sat on the stool at my kitchen island and helped me make chicken chowder while sipping on sweet iced tea. I gave her an old butcher-block cutting board, a bunch of carrots and my favorite knife.
The iron skillet sizzles with onions, garlic and celery as the soup pot heats the chicken stock. Its steam rises up like worship on Sunday.
My friend chases the lemon in her glass with her finger, as her pregnant pause prepares to birth a new conversation.
Brushing back a renegade curl from her forehead she begins telling what is on her heart. “ I thought life would be different by now.”
“What were you expecting by this time?” My spoon begins to ladle the onion mixture into the chicken stock.
“More success as a writer than I have now. Every time I sit down to write, someone needs something. My writing is broken into a thousand little pieces. It feels like interruptions have crushed my creativity.” She lifts the lemon from her glass and bites it causing her face to twist into a knot. What she said next I knew all women would understand…
Today I’m blogging at Allume. Come over and read the rest of the story!
Latest posts by Diane W. Bailey (see all)
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