OfPeaceDestroyed

The smell of warm ciabatta, topped with herbs picked fresh used to permeate the air here. It doesn't anymore, not since Shelly died. Now it just smells like potpourri, with the cold air suffering from the lack of convection, both by my refusal to move and consequently, refusal to put the heat on. The fabric on my chair's arms used to feel like stiff little bristles on a brush, and would sway with me when I swished my arms back and forth in anticipation of the dinners she would bring me. Now, they don't bounce crisply like they used to and the only bountiful feasts they experience is my sagging arms holding a small plate of toasted rye with a