The Quiche

This may be the last thing I do, for now. Time to think about what’s next, how this all might end. Think on the last twenty years of life—what did I do? Raise two kids, get two advanced degrees, but fail to realize my dreams. How corny. My birthday is coming and like usual, I haven’t any real big plans. Any meaningful plans. The white carnations—funereal flowers—on the table are turning brown. I could toss them into the trash. That’s something to do. Maybe bake a quiche; listen for the timer. Let it buzz, hurt my ears.