Happy birthday, make a wish. Your fork cuts through cake as easily as carving through snow. Its tines plough fields of frosting until you smooth it over, like freshly fallen snow. It is the pitchfork your father used to throw leaves in the autumn. You love autumn. You love the leaves and the crash of waves against rocky cliffs beneath the harvest moon. As a child you believed Poseidon wielded his trident to control the tides. You pulled the largest fork in the kitchen drawer and walked to the sea. The water only lapped at your feet. You grew up and learned that a fork was a simultaneous attack on two or more pieces by one piece. Like when your father cornered you and your mother with the same pitchfork in hand. Your father left soon after. It was later still, that you learned how to fork in Hotel Love. That was in the strange, new city, Osaka. You loved it. But now, you're at a crossroads, a fork in the path. Your mother is on life support. Is it time to pull the plug?
