It's 3:47 am.
On the plate in front of me: a piece of vegan polish sausage, about a cubic inch; five chic peas, with the skin of one additional chic pea, and about a quarter teaspoon of watery chic pea sludge that tastes of garlic and salt; the last two centimetres squared, or so, of a piece of buttered whole wheat toast.
This is a significant improvement from yesterday's suhoor.
I'm anxious about the time, as Fajr draws near.
Fighting against myself and my painfully slow eating.
Fighting against the thought that maybe I don't need these last bites to make it through the day.
Fighting against the anxiety of needing to hydrate and stave off heat.
Later in the day I will fight myself again.
I am almost always fighting something these days.
Almost always angry.
Other times I will find respite.
The familiar discipline,
the restraint against impulse,
it will quiet me.
I will grow gardens of patience.
Vines will climb up my anger.
New growth will push out of my soul.
Nerves full of anger will set loose singing blades of grass.
I wrap the last bite of sausage, with three fingers, with toast.
I scoop the chic peas up with a fork, poking the sludge onto my fork with a cautious finger.
I will take bites out of my anger, one at a time, every day, for a month,
until there's nothing left to eat.
