It’s nearly 2 in the morning and I shuffle into the kitchen to make myself a sandwich. Well, let’s call it a sandwich. That sounds more elegant than a fistful of bread and cheese.

Well, even that has a sort of elegance to it, when you imagine a chunk of bread cut off from a whole homebaked loaf, and a chunk of rustic cheese. It’s a bit misleading since the reality is more like a piece of Wonder Bread with a slice of Kraft Cheese product stuck between it. I smush it down with my whole hand.

I don’t know why I smush it, but it would be part of the recipe if anyone ever called for the recipe, though I honestly do not know why they would.

— time passes as I stare blankly at the screen—

It occurs to me a cookbook about strange comfort snack habits would be quite charming, actually.

“Peach, eaten over a sink. 1. Roll up sleeves. 2. Scrub the peach. 3. Bite into it over the sink and realize only as the juices drip everywhere that you did not bring a napkin. 4. Continue eating anyway, just shifting positions so your shirt is not marked.”

— time passes —

Despite what you might imagine if you saw me snacking on my late night treats, I’m a fairly decent cook.

I don’t think I realized how comfortable I am in the kitchen until the strokes left me with nowhere else to go. No point in pretending to do office work when you can’t read. No point in bed if you can’t find sleep. No safety in outside if you can’t see to your left or right.

It’s really not that safe in a kitchen without peripheral vision either, though luckily I had very few incidents.

— time passes —

I like to use towels as hotpads. I’m careful on the stove because they sometimes drag close to the flame as I shift things around. I have a system– I move the pot as needed with the towel, and then I extend my left hand out, away from the stove, and it holds the towel until I need it again.

It probably looks ridiculous but it works, or it does usually.

During those days with no peripheral vision, I accidentally caught the towel on the fire.

I did not notice.

I simply transferred it to my left hand, and extended it out and away from me.

I didn’t notice till I turned to close the window (thinking it smelled like fire outside). I saw the towel in my hand then, burnt nearly to my fingertips.

An incident, yes, but it ended fine.

In my tiny kitchen, I could manage most impending incidents well before they became disasters. It’s no wonder I like it in there.

— time passes —

These last few days, I haven’t wanted to cook. I can’t think consistently enough to even imagine a food. It’s as if time keeps slipping away in small measures. As if I wouldn’t notice.

— time passes —

I’m feeling sickly again.

— time passes —

I’m feeling sickly again, and I wonder if that has something to do with the time flits. I wonder if I’m swallowing down every nudge of the clock, in small digestible bites. If my body is trying to hold onto more of it, any way I can.

Time is holy medicine, but you can’t make it in a kitchen, and you can’t seed a garden with it, and you can’t just store it in your medicine cabinet until you need more.

No, it just appears. It breathes a bit more comfort into a late night snack. It gives you a few more years or decades or seconds to make something good and lasting. It swallows you whole. Kisses you awake. Whispers you to sleep.

And then, even though it has no biological imperative to do so, it just… passes.

— time passes —

I don’t know where it’s gone.