I woke up to the kindling of a thunderstorm.
I came home to sunshine. And complicated thoughts about families, parenting, and other things.
I know I am a month late for this, really, but I cooked from traditional Nigerian recipes today. The Yam festival is a time to understnad the change of the season, when the summer turns to fall; when the harvest is taken in, and what we have held onto and saved from the previous year will be left behind to make way for what we will gather this year. Unfortunately my little grocery wasn't carrying real yams - just sweet potatoes, so I focused on plantains, rice and black eyed peas. The scent of the cinnamon is lingering on my fingers.
These same fingers would keep typing if it weren't for the miles to go before I sleep. Nulla dies sine linea - that's all I require of myself here. There are times when the linea will be brilliant, times when it will not. Maybe I will revise this tommorow - or find a way to make something more exciting happen. I'm still rusty in this writing gig.