Comfort Food for Thought

Daydreaming about an ideal future, remembering times when I'd put my head in my mom's lap and she'd stroke my hair, brunch at the Carlyle in Shirlington (homefries, asparagus, and broiled salmon with an amazing pomfrey mustard, and beignets with powdered sugar of course), three hour long conversations with my best friend, making ice cream or kulfi, writing, reading books written by contemplative malcontents like myself with pages of platitudes that culminate in little more than confirmation that my general and pervasive sense of dread is justifiable, making dinner for other people, writing, feeling snow or rain on my face, winding the curls of my hair around my finger, falling asleep as my grandmother tapped a light rhythm on my shoulder to calm me, thinking about the lush, rolling hills at Sanchi, sitting in the Art Institute, writing, taking pictures, a huge cup of coffee, imagining God, remembering the time I could have sworn I felt my grandfather's ghost touch my back, writing, writing, writing, writing, writing.