1/13/22 . . . it’s a new year
1/13/23
7:09 p.m.
My body is faint. Even now, reality spins as if the demons below put Earth within the dryer — that gaseous beast — and set it to tumble low.
The parakeet died first — our canary in the coal mine. Then the gerbils, Bob and Evans.
David and I sent the children to Jehoshaphat, our Amish friend, just in time; it’s too late for us, though.
If only we hadn’t renovated the kitchen. Joanna Gaines has killed us all with her painted shiplap and brass potfillers installed above those . . . those stovetops. The blue flames — they were so comforting. We should have known they were will-o’-the-wisps in the bog, leading us to doom.
For years we spent our days before that flickering, azure, Promethean shrine, not knowing, not caring to know. We now lie expired upon the suburban savannah, poisoned and stupefied.
Like the Israelites stricken by the serpents for their faithlessness, we are now punished for our sins of conveniently heating soup and centrally heating our homes. Where is Moses? Where is the snake upon the staff to heal us?
Biden, forgive us, for we knew not what we did.
Saint Greta, pray for us.
I die.
Sincerely,
Bethany Bobbins
Wauwatosa, Wis.