Perfume

The bananas are turning black, day by day. You can smell them as soon as you open the front door and they squish delicately under your fingertips. Ethan wants me to make banana bread but I know that as soon as I open up the skin and see the slimy mash within coupled with overwhelming scent I will feel sick and have to leave the room, open a window, turn the fan on high. I wish I could just throw them away but there is too much guilt about Somalia, about Chicago. Of course two bananas can't change the world but every little bit helps. Attitude, often more than action. And in truth, once it's made, I like banana bread almost as much as pumpkin.