Groundlings

Adding a piece of madrone to the woodstove, I notice an ad about Alzheimer’s playing during a break in the SF Warriors game that OwlMan is watching.

A guy holds up sweet potatoes and a woman, presumably his aging mother, calls them "groundlings.”

I like that, groundlings. Sounds like a kind of animal, a vole or shrew. She sees them as inhabitants of the earth, beings, not just tuberous roots for the table.

Her son corrects her. I know it’s a commercial. All sales are to solve problems, so her word must be fixed.

But I think, What if she is right?

Back in the kitchen, making mashed potatoes for my husband, who is terminally ill but still knows food names. I hold the potato, feeling it’s skin. We call it skin! Oh, and I rinse away two green eyes. Yes, we call them eyes!

Hello, groundling. I see you. Soon you will inhabit this animated dust of us.