Green olives

may wonder remain mine

Before bed, I eat green olives out of the jar. I use a little spoon to carve them out of their tousled nooks — wedged in, roundly embracing each other cheek to cheek, bloated with a green-brown brine. I eat them standing by the stove, they are cold and meaty and inert. If they had mouths, I imagine they would be brief and grumpy, miffed from being so far from their mediterranean breezes. They deserve more of my reverence. I eat them too quickly, ravenous from breastfeeding and boredom. I look at the jar and its tidy shape. The red metal lid pleases me and I briefly wonder why certain things please me so. I savor the satisfaction of snugly completing the closure of the jar.

For a moment I consider the hands that contributed to this midnight snack by the stove. I wonder about the process, the sorting, the gossip, the lighting, the smells and what they are wearing. I wonder what they were talking about in the field, in the factory. Perhaps bored or perhaps day dreaming as I am. I think about them, I imagine them as women, older, fierce and laughing. I think about what they pack for lunch and how they make their beds in the morning. If they prefer coffee or tea.

For a moment I consider googling “how are olives made” to get a glimpse of the process, but I pause, not wanting an AI summary to truncate my internal world-building.

May wonder remain mine, I think to myself. May I never let it atrophy in the presence of finger-tip information. As I put the jar of olives back in the fridge, I vow to make sure I teach my daughter how to wonder, and midnight snack.