God has a zillion refrigerators, and I am one. Inside find hot sauce of anger, frozen chicken hearts. Open my door to see baked goods, baked bads, half-baked ideas. Stand before me, God, like a teenage boy, staring till you find my two percent, and drink me straight from the carton. Towards the back, lurk containers of curdled hopes, long past their expiration dates. Bend before me God, a small girl searching, searching for the pearl of last night’s tapioca. In my crisper, most has gone soft and limp, though some cilantro still puts forth new leaf. Kneel before me, God, housewife of my soul; wipe away the sticky bits, the spills, the spots, clean up the fruits, unused, dried or decaying. Open my door, God, and let my light come on. /////////// Kappa Waugh (author): Reared in a family where everyone wrote, it never occurred to me not to. Although I was brought up Southern, I've been a happy resident of the Hudson Valley since 1968. Husband, friends, God, food, Hudson Valley Women's Writing Group https://www.hudsonvalleywomenswritinggroup.com/ are all part of my support system and my delight. I worked as a Reference Librarian at Vassar College for over 20 years.