I've let my kombucha ferment too long.
I can tell by the way the smell has changed from that kombucha tang to apple cider vinegar, and because even across the room I can taste it in the back of my throat. Brains in a jar, they thicken with each passing day I leave them. I could start a new batch, but I don't. I just watch them grow.
Looking at you, I hide these thoughts from my eyes. Tonight you remind me of all the things I'm failing at, this house in shambles, a collection of toddler mess and unfolded laundry. You don't say it though, just smile at me. This space we inhabit, this calculated imperfection is home as long as you're with me and we both know it. I like the way the light hits you hands, an odd glow, as you click and fidget. Have I reminded you how much I love you? Have I told you the way my heart skips a beat when you look at me? Marriage is so much of a balancing act, and we're balanced, for now.
"Plus I remember how to get there," you say. I nod at you, half listening as I write this. Isn't that the way it always is? We feign knowledge and acceptance out of love. You get the same glassy look in your eye when I talk of transitive verbs. You care because I care, and that's enough.
Anthony is sitting in the high chair, kicking at me through the table cloth and babbling as he plays with his food. Feeding him is a challenge tonight. He's sticking his sunglasses in this beans and then putting them on his face.
"Just three more beans," I tell my toddler as if he understands me.
"Oh." He responds, and starts to lick his sunglasses.
When they hand you that squishy baby in the hospital, they don't tell you about these little battles. Anthony has won the battle tonight, sitting on my lap, in desperate need of a bath. But I won the war.
He ate those three beans.
Written because I needed to say it and not for a prompt, but added to a prompt because I can.