When the world ended twenty-four years ago we had enjoyed scoops of ice cream after dinner — until our freezer died.
Despite sinking cities and endless wildfires, I still remember the sweet bite of vanilla, and your sister Meg’s obsession with chocolate.
We had been short of food for some time, had already learned human waste did wonders for our plants, and decided to sprout our last super potatoes in our backyard.
Back then, we never realized the potato trees would grow to swallow our humble house.
Today, even the birdless sky fails to ruin our nightly stroll through the overgrown park. I refuse to smell the smoke through the bandana tied over my mouth. I tighten my grip on your hand, and I can’t help feeling like the potato trees strangling the windowsills.
“Sweetheart, Anna,” I say, snuggling against your body in bed, seeking your warmth. “Where should we go on vacation?”
I roll over to face you and play with your graying hair. The strands splay over your pillow like roots. The mold stings my nose; there are too many potatoes for us to eat before they rot.
“Mi nena,” you say — it’s funny, I’m still your baby girl well into middle age — “you know we can’t leave our super potatoes alone. They grow too fast.”
“I know,” I say, tracing your furrowed smile lines. “But I thought we could ask your sister to house-sit for us.”
“Mi nena, te amo.” You shake your head. “Remember the mess she made last time we left her alone?”
Your voice no longer cracks on the last word.
We’ve been married for so long we tell the same joke over and over. Meg smiles from the framed picture on the night table, forever a vivacious twenty-five-year-old.
I place my hand on your soft belly while dreaming of my grandmother’s old potato recipes in the dark.
Outside, another fire crackles along the horizon, but I turn away from the window.
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