Sunday Ion Corcos

Sunday

It is late, and you still type your notes for the day; you ate some gluten, a little egg.

Your suitcase sits by the door; the guestroom has only enough space for one. Sorrell lies between us on the lounge. She was not sick today. I hear blackbirds, and the hum of the fridge.

You haven’t eaten well lately; your thyroid aches.

We are planning for the week, how many falafel, tins of chickpeas, sweet potatoes, bananas we need. And for the biscuits you will make as gifts: flour, eggs, unsalted butter.

I have put on weight in England: ginger biscuits, digestives, white bread. So much is familiar here, and not.

That is what I like about England. The sedge warbler, the change in weather, and all the different words of English I haven’t heard before.

I didn’t expect anything from here, not even to understand the accents, or the rain.

Ion Corcos