Sunday

Breakfast is not my strong suit, and Sophie's sweaty palms (from seizures) call for dissociation. I'll sweep the crumbs from the floor and wrap the pizza from last night in foil, might even go so far as to put the pills in the tiny plastic cup, the half juice half water in the cup, but I'd rather wait for the Saint That Comes at 9 than hobble with her down the hallway and inch her onto the stool. In the morning the bib is a reproach, the sweaty palms.  Everything to get the job done - penguin-shaped sponges was the subject line of an email, not sufficient to the task. I'd rather wait over the humming, sip my coffee, fiddle with the filters, her face from dinner last night. Dinner is my strong suit.