March 22, 2022

Nina’s pot roast

Ten hours in the crockpot, she said, lifting a lid around which soupy bubbles had gathered
the way concertgoers flock a stage. We were talking about birds—I’d asked Nina what
her spirit animal was, already deciding on an emu. Then we wondered what a collection
of emus might be called, and Hannah said, “a triumph,” and that sounded about right.
The evening unfolded in slow, lapping waves. We toasted to our various fortunes over
glasses of carbonated water that tasted vaguely of orange creamsicles. I know,
you’re wondering where all of this is going, and I’m not sure I have an answer. As I write,
I’m thinking about the sound the rain made on the windows that night, and how
we could barely hear it because of how happy we were, and how tender the meat was,
and how any day now, the daffodils will return. Any day now.