Is this the stuff? I’ve seen her do it a thousand times, but I can’t remember.

It’s the stuff, but how much? That’s funny. “It’s the stuff, but how much?” is words to live by; words to live by. Liquor. Gambling. Kindling. Children. Money that slips through your fingers. It’s the stuff, but how much?

She’s the stuff, and never enough. She’s calm when I’m angry, and sober when I’m giddy. She looks the other way when I come home with one whiskey on my breath. The touch of her hand heals a hammer bruise like a poultice. I swear if I lost my hand she could put it back on with what’s in the cabinet. I can’t even make breakfast with it.

She’s an awful color. As white as the day I married her, and that white came in a tin with a puff inside. Now it’s inside looking out. There’s sweat on her brow. Her eyelids flutter. I can’t stand to see her like this.

Thank god the children slept all night. If I’m late for work one more time, I’ll be fired for sure, and they don’t care who’s sick. You sick, me sick, her sick, them sick, we sick. Go home and be sick. Don’t come back.

I’d give anything to ask her which spoon does she use? I know she uses the spoon, but which one?

John, get your brothers and sister awake and help them wash their faces, there’s a good man. You got your momma’s face and all her sense. Help your daddy now. Daddy’s making breakfast today.

Today momma will sleep and we’ll pray after we eat.