Human Soup

I will go to the farmers market this morning. There will be fresh fruit and fresh vegetables, and there will be music, and music is good, right? And vegetables are healthy, and the sun will be shining, and I will be the person who carries a canvas bag that says pura vida, and it will be overflowing with fresh fruit and fresh vegetables. I will smile as I choose the ripest fruit, and pet the dogs, and listen to the music without worrying about what I will eat later or how I will cook it.

I will not think about the sun and if it will rain later, and if it rains later will I be sad, and if it does not rain later, will my plants die, and I will not worry about how to cut a mango.

I always want the mango. But when I go to cut it, there is the giant pit that I know is there but I am always surprised, and my hands get sticky, and the board is slippery, and the knife slips from my hand, and the peel holds all the mango, and by the time I am finished cutting the mango, I do not want the mango anymore.

But I will go to the farmers market. I will not worry if my smiling is enough while I watch the music, or if I should smile more as I tip them, and when should I tip them, now? now? now? I will walk to the vegetables, and I will look at all the vegetables that I could cook if I knew how to cook or wanted to cook. Why am I not a person who cooks?

And then I will wonder why I am here, why did I come, if I don’t want a mango and I don’t smile right at the music, and my bag doesn’t say pura vida, and there is nothing in it.