Picklemas

Tomatoes.
Chop, chop, chop.
Okras.
Thinly.
Chop, chop, chop.

I leaned in to kiss his forehead. Please, just another day, another month, I thought. Was a year too much to ask for?

“Baby, everything’s gonna be fine,” he says. “God has a plan for us, and I promise you, it ain’t death by burning.”