Julie held a free yoga class for kids at our library today. It was wonderful. She was wonderful. I walked into the library with two kids and walked out with two relaxed, limp noodles.

I’m not so brave as to enter their tangled web. Only they know which threads are sticky and which are not.

Wooden paths and bridges lead to trout pools lovingly tended by ghosts. A thick layer of moss covers every surface, absorbing our words and footfalls. In a neighboring yard, a woman hangs her laundry on the line. We float past her unnoticed.

I water my garden every morning. When I’m finished, I sit on my front steps, tuck my hands between my knees for warmth, and listen. The water makes a crackling noise as it seeps into the concrete at my feet. If the windows of the passing cars are open, which they often are, I can make out the wax and wane of NPR or Coldplay or Taylor Swift, or an...

It’s very strange to see my name in a magazine. But I’m not complaining.