I am folding my crackers. One in half, and then again.
They are wide brown rectangles, sweet on the palate, sweeter still slathered with cream cheese, or braunschweiger, like a mother used to do.
I am folding my crackers. Little bits of space I control, little pieces of eating I measure out and dole to myself. Like postcards, or coupons for backrubs, or four-leaf clovers.
Every single crumb that drops reminds me, each time you move space around you something breaks. You have to know this; I tell you now so you will know.
For next time.
It can’t be folded neatly. Things break off.