I kept on chopping the peppers into smaller and smaller bits, the minutes ticking by far slower than the water boiling on the stove, in preparation for the noodles that would bend and soften, yielding to its heat.

The blood in my veins threatened to gather speed upon the news, same for my heart, but I decided instead, to stay calm, wait it out, at least until we knew more, or had a real reason to worry.

The rhythm of the knife against the board reminded me of that day so long ago, when folding the baskets of laundry was all I could do. Reach in, pick it up, bring the corners together, over and over again, as if the repeated folding and pressing with my fingers could ease the mounting anxiety, as I sat alone on our plaid couch, listening to the baby monitor, and the news from the other room.

I spent hours that day, waiting, and wishing (hopelessly) that my husband would look for me and tell me that everything was going to be ok. (He didn’t come.) Instead, he watched those same, horrific images playing over and over again, endlessly, while I soothed out the wrinkles from his t-shirts.

This afternoon waiting for the all-clear, I made the pasta salad. Hopeful that tomorrow we’d be ok, safe inside the brick structure, that seemed so tenuous today.