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.
on coffee
I sit down at the table with a perfect cup of coffee: a preheated mug filled three-quarters of the way with Freedom of Espresso’s organic blend, finished off with really long pours of both white sugar and heavy cream. As I take my first, second, and third sips of the morning, I can feel my mood lift from conscious to maniacally chipper. High on caffeine and eager for conversation, I look over at my seven year-old as she works on her spelling.
“So, Joss, what do you think about coffee,” I ask her.
“I think I’m going to like coffee when I get older, and I’ll probably drink it,” she says, not looking up from her book.
Good answer.
“So, Noah,” I say, turning to my left to look at my five year-old, “do you have any thoughts about coffee?”
Pause.
“Well,” he says with much gravitas, “I did try a Red Bull once.”
I nod my head slowly and furrow my brow a little, matching his tone. Then I take another sip of coffee and watch the morning traffic pass by the front window, and we all think about coffee.
varsity pizza
We stopped at Varsity on the Syracuse University hill for some pizza last week. We were surrounded by lots of college students, hospital staff wearing scrubs, and blue collar dudes. People didn’t seem to be able to deal with a lady with two kids and a camera. I think I scared them a bit.
this time, before the snows,
I want to need to remember:
:: a pod of dolphins hunting for their breakfast in the waters across the cove
:: the smell of laundry that has dried in the salty bay air
:: laughing and carrying on with old friends over wine and clams casino
:: a funky haircut that heralds a new season in my life
:: rounded triangles of moonlight reflected off the backs of thousands of waves and minnows
:: linguine con le vongole made by my former chef of a husband using clams dug from the bay with our own big and little hands. so. very. yummy.
:: reading sonnets under blankets after the weather turned much colder
nightgown
The babysitter is in the kitchen. I think she’s sitting at the table, reading the paper and smoking a cigarette, but the door is closed so I am not sure. I am in the next room, the living room. I am smiling. I lovingly arrange my mother’s pink polyester nightgown on my little rocking chair. It’s her favorite nightgown and so when I am lonely for her I take it out of her dresser and I spend time with it. Its sleeves are slippery and so over and over I have to put them back on the arms of the rocking chair, but I don’t mind. The babysitter comes into the room and tries to ask me questions about the nightgown but I don’t speak to her. I am thinking only of my mother. I scoop the nightgown up in my arms and I’m giving her a hug. I push my face into it and I am cuddling her. I drag it around the room by an arm and I’m holding her hand. And we dance together to Kenny Rogers on the radio.