Tuesday, January 25, 2011
He loved the smell of my cooking, even when it wasn't something he intended to eat. The smell of frying onions and garlic, specifically. He acted like he didn't listen, but he did. He seemed so critical, so ironic, but he wasn't. He was so angry with me, but he didn't stop trying to move past it. He wanted to fix things. Lives. The world. Injustice. He loved.
Posted by Isonomist