I woke up so existential this morning my cold brew coffee is quivering with meaning, and I can see to the edge of the known universe. With few reservations, I pronounce it good. My hands push themselves together. The familiar flesh I live within, the geodesic cellular structures, the cool, smokey breeze, the faint bird songs, the river, the memory of ice, the calendar, the unsung heroes, burned, drowned; gone. But not gone.
The Untethered Oldest Woman stops by to borrow my eyes, a cup of sugar, and all the eggs I’ve ever stored, anywhere. “You can have whatever you need,” I say. “There’s more in the pantry. Most of it is past the sell-by date anyway. Take a lot of whole wheat flour. It’s close to rancid.”
“How much toilet paper can I have?” she asks. The look on her face is wily, her intent buried deep within the dark wrinkles that hide inhabitants of other planets, illegal immigrants, and the shamed and aging losers of cosmic beauty pageants.
“Take it all,” I say. “I don’t care.” And I mean it.
“Well, aren’t we accommodating this morning?” The Old One says, smiling. “I’ll only take what I can balance on my bike. That’ll leave you with a year’s supply or so. Better stock up, though. There’s another wave coming.”
I don’t rise to the bait. Well, maybe I do. I don’t know myself all that well most mornings—even the existential ones. “I don’t care.” I repeat, and cross my arms, wondering how to make a graceful exit.
The Untethered One shakes her head. “You’re a terrible actor,” she says. “I like that about you.”
I consider the things that haunt me; the slack-jawed sleep of the feeble, the twisted postures of the dead, the fact of toilet paper, an orange scarf waiting to help with my yoga poses. These are my oppressors. These are my liberators. These assure me that today, I exist. To celebrate, I think I’ll add red, green, and maybe turquoise to the streak of blue in my chemically white hair. Then I’ll drive to town and join the army.
The nice thing about this plan is that the colors are temporary, and the army doesn’t want me.
The long orange scarf catches the light and reminds me of saffron. Such an expensive spice. I’ve hoarded a small packet so long it’s likely lost its flavor. It’s not only that it’s rare and expensive, though; I’m also not sure how to use it.
“Use it today,” The Untethered Oldest Woman urges. “Pudding. Cake. Chicken. Doesn’t matter. It’s the act of using it that will matter.” I’m doubtful, but she’s extraordinarily animated. “No, I’m serious,” she says, waving her many arms for emphasis. “It will matter. Use the saffron.”