Glenda

“For anyone with a library in their head and love in their heart,”
― Kevin Ansbro, The Fish That Climbed a Tree

“[Greens] don't come through the back door the same as other groceries. They don't cower at the bottom of paper bags marked 'Liberty.' They wave over the top. They don't stop to be checked off the receipt. They spill out onto the counter. No going onto shelves with cans in orderly lines like school children waiting for recess. No waiting, sometimes for years beyond the blue sell by date, to be picked up and taken from the shelf. Greens don't stack or stand at attention. They aren't peas to be pushed around. Cans can't contain them. Boxed in they would burst free. Greens are wild. Plunging them into a pot took some doing. Only lobsters fight more. Either way, you have to use your hands. Then, retrieving them requires the longest of my mother's wooden spoons, the one with the burnt end. Swept onto a plate like the seaweed after a storm, greens sit tall, dark, and proud.”
― Georgia Scott, American Girl: Memories That Made Me

“The cherry trees held the sleet this morning when she awoke but now the trees in their witless conspiracy are nodding to the dark.”
― Paul Lynch, Prophet Song

“You must really like curry” is the kind of lazy, unimaginative racism I’d naively assumed people outgrew.”
― Nikesh Shukla, The Good Immigrant: 26 Writers Reflect on America