Hot orange sunrise peels back my eyes. Sweat soaked skin meets cool air when I pull the covers away.

I lumber from my cave, and what is this? A pile of bones heaped on the floor.  They are mine. A fine, greasy mess I left for the maid.

I cracked open my bones and let all the good stuff out, those seven deadly sins flittered about, and I tried to catch them but they slipped from my fingers.   I wanted to marinate them and make this refuse a stew.  What better way to heal an Angry wound but to sup the marrow from which it came?

Come back here, you rascals, I exclaim, putting my seven deadly sins back in their box. Naughty things, useless things, helpless things that only want a little recognition, struggling to get out, but I silence them.

Yesterday I cracked open my bones and watched the sins fly out. Last night I slept with them all.  Today I will observe, perhaps interrogate and see which goes into my pot first. When I am ready, I shall call it Blessing Stew, because you can’t have blessing without sin.