Vacation
by Kimberly Wilder
My desire to live came creeping back in when my reason for living curled up next to me in pain. The last man who said he loved me also said I liked being needed. Suddenly I needed to make soup. Something about the thyme and paprika and broth keeps me making it. Even years after divorcing the man whose mother taught me how. I’m dicing potatoes and carrots when a friend says he heard the shots from his office. I heard from my loved ones and clients - back to making dumplings. This soup will now be required. My daughters are safe in my arms while Gaga’s Soup simmers on the stove. My friend is in town with the FBI, too busy to visit. I am making soup while my already full voicemail fills with more messages of potential clients needing trauma therapy. Perhaps he was a little right, but I don’t like being needed this much and even Gaga’s Soup isn’t - fucking - magical. I think I need a vacation.
