pickles

The pickle jar blew its top in the living room last night. Kanipa Apa was just beginning to snore, and her daughter and grandchildren were sprawled in front of the TV. I was in my room, doing something on the computer. And then there was a loud, metallic pop and the smell of garlic. We didn’t know what it was for a while, but then Aisulu spotted the jar under a chair. The lid was not to be found. She put it on the kitchen floor, near the fireplace, and cleaned as best she could. However, something in the pickle jar continued to fester. This morning, there was a little sticky pickle juice river from the jar to where I stand to brush my teeth. My favorite socks are saturated.