sifted

She held her Quentin Tarantino special edition collection tight in the bottom of her bag. All the sounds around the maniacal misgivings that her mind were beginning to publicize to the world were something of a wordless embarrassment. All of the words she said came out misspelled. All of the worlds she wrote looked like a really bad dream. She sifted flour through the grated acceptance until it had no odd lumps or bumps and until it made all the biscuits taste like gravy and the cakes taste like frosting. Yule tide carols were being sung by the choir in her mind on Memorial Day. She didn't remember who she was supposed to remember anyway.