It is wildfire season. Our view of distant glaciers is thin, gauzy. I’ve grown to rely on the strength of our landscape, these towering mountains keeping watch, standing still, a merciful comfort when things feel hard. But today, they are silent. The kids and I take turns grasping at the right words for the precise
We finish The Saturdays. My son perfects his mac-and-cheese recipe, my 5-year-old cleans the baseboards. We hop on and off the carousel of graduation parties, exchanging checks and poetry for food truck treats on hot nights. In a dear friend’s backyard, a surprise storm blows in and the girls dance in the rain while the
We sing Happy Birthday to the dog. I tease my daughter’s hair for an 80’s dance, teach her the fine art of a French cuff. I catch myself humming Conjunction Junction while folding the whites. We bake Homer Price cookies, double the batch. Our youngest exchanges her first baby tooth for a rubber ball. I send
Our first big snow arrived over the weekend, all gusts and billows, and our dear town was nearly plummeted in the best of ways. The neighborhood children scattered into yards front and back, wrapped in pom pom hats and last season’s too-small snow pants. Red-cheeked and breathless, they set out producing all manner of festive
I stock the pantry with beans, set bowlfuls aside for creative bounty. We dip maples and oaks and sycamores into a melted-down pool of last winter’s candles, string a garland for the mantel. I launder the flannel sheets, ready the spiced cider pouches. We intend to write down the first frost on our calendar, but
Our first night in the cabin, dehydrated and weary, we line up our mattresses on the unfinished floor. Our eyelids are heavy, but we steal a few pre-bedtime minutes for shadow puppets on the wall. We are here, we whisper. Finally here.
We finish The Hobbit. We bring home a farm mutt called Louie, supply dozens of lone socks for his milk teeth. I drive Ken to the airport at 6am, an errand that feels more familiar than either of us want it to. The kids and I attend six weeks’ worth of expected celebrations solo –
I order tomato seeds from Italy. I write a poem to my daughter’s friend. I meander through downtown gardens with my husband and youngest, popping in for a London Fog from a boutique hotel a few blocks away. While waiting for the barista, I people-watch, pretending I am just another tourist in a lobby full