The silly thing about the Fast: it isn’t.

It’s as though all the clocks in the world suddenly disappeared. The day used to be evenly divided into predictable pieces, which are now meaningless. Dawn until breakfast. Breakfast to lunch. Lunch to snack. Snack to dinner. During the Fast the long day is divided into only two kinds of time: now, and not yet.

Sometimes they both happen at once.

I clean things during the Fast. I scrub the back of the microwave. Take all the spices out of the cabinet and put them back. Launder the dishtowels. The urge to purify leaks out of my body and into my kitchen sink. I make soap-bubble prayers.

Leaning towards sundown is the strangest. I cook without tasting. Lots of garlic today. Lemon juice. Zatar. On pasta? Why not? I believe it will taste good.

It’s important to have faith.

One bowl of noodles. Broccoli, spinach, walnuts. I’m so full I could burst. It’s no more than an ordinary supper, but during the Fast I realize the enormity of the everyday.

When I fast, I realize how stupid the old test of optimism is.

Glasses are never empty, they are only full of light.

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