I wiped crumbs off the table and felt sad that domestic life can be so endless and so intimate at once

Dear Delyara, Nothing is ever really done. That’s what I felt. Not in a hopeless way exactly. More in a bodily one. Clean the table, and someone eats. Fold the towels, and they are used. Fill the fridge, and it empties. Pack the lunch, and tomorrow arrives with another lunch already waiting behind it. And yet, inside all that repetition, there is love. Real love. People being fed, clothed, comforted, made ready, given softness through a thousand ordinary acts. I think that’s what makes the domestic world emotionally strange. It can be both deeply meaningful and deeply monotonous in the same hour. Tonight, it felt both.