Protected: Day 129: Baking and crying.
Other writing
My yoga pants are smeared with paint. Every bare inch of my skin is covered in flecks of the stuff. My cheeks are just pink with a dinner-hour sunburn that will fade by tomorrow night, and my belly is churning, full of ice cream I shouldn’t have eaten but wouldn’t have dared resist. On a…
Read MoreI can just see the shimmer of pirate fireworks going off across Western Avenue through my office window; there are explosions in the distance from every direction. Our festivities are long over for the day: We gathered to eat, drink, and sweat through our clothes with family — responsibly distanced and all, of course. I…
Read MoreIt’s not yet 7 a.m., and the world is waking up beyond the sanctuary of my back deck. Birds start their morning chirping hellos at one another, cloistered and invisible among the leaves. Western Avenue hums. In spite of the drama during last week’s farmers market, I came home with an armload of tiny herbs…
Read MoreI was the only person wearing a mask this morning when I walked to the post box to send a birthday card. We got bored of this pandemic. It’s not our problem anymore; let’s grab a cocktail. During shelter in place, the city padlocked the playground in Welles Park. Every park posted bold-faced “PLAYGROUND CLOSED”…
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