At Least They're Committed

My kitchen counter looks like a drug store, a small catch-as-you-can pharmacy. D is coughing upstairs — he has a very dramatic cough — he’s soaking in the tub so he should be comfortable by now. Last night he was feeling so poorly we took him out for menudo. Tonight I’m making jambalaya: onion, garlic, green, red and yellow pepper, hot sausage, shrimp (yeah, I know, I’ll be puffy in the morning), chicken, rice . . . good, healthy, faculties-clearing stuff.

It’s not D I’m worried about. It’s someone else. I’ve been consumed with . . . oh, I don’t know. Fear? Dread? It has to be OK, that’s all. I hear D cough again. He’ll be fine, but, but, but .  . . That’s not what I’m worried about. I think, I think, I think. How can I fix this? What’s the scenario? I don’t even know. I just have to be ready.

We did a cleansing this afternoon. Flames, fire. And maybe the jambalaya can be a part of it. I’m a good Catholic girl and power is power and it occurred to me that if someone is manifesting some sort of badness, then I have the faith and the tools to do otherwise. We burned ‘the gift,’ with a bunch of random papers and stuff to ensure it’s all ashes. I’ve been praying and fighting and thinking and thinking and thinking since Wednesday afternoon. Finally, today I asked God in one of my classic tests, is it OK? Will he be OK? And I got a resounding yes, a resounding yes. Thank you, thank you. I don’t care deeply, at least not that often. But when I do care and I fear there is a threat, I am consumed. I have to fix it. I take another sip of red wine — the good kind — so, I tell myself, this is consumption. D comes down and points out that I got Mexican hot sauce, not Cajun. I tell him to shut up and not spoil the ambiance. He says, “Well you did.” I’m not worried about him. Nope, I’m worried about someone else entirely.