364/365

things I want to remember about november:

string on the sidewalk in the loveliest arrangement
steakhouse mashed potatoes and home movies with my dad 
the buck that ran across our front yard in the middle of the day
the way ezra kept dragging his mattress into our room for impromptu sleepovers
the walks I took every day, I mean, almost every day
my new french friend perrine, whom I met on one of these walks, and who, miraculously, lives in the neighborhood
the two days I spent alone, shooting at the old farmhouse
the sound of a piano in a completely empty house
ava and marcel, marcel and ava
the rare footage I found of my mom, the way she sounded, the way she looked into the camera, right at me
the text we received from ava's friends, a photo of all of them together with her in the ER
seeing her surrounded by love, so much love
how this made me cry in the car on the way there, smoky pink skies, blurred headlights
the light at the la quinta motel after a long, long night
the barrage of photos ezra texted me from his field trip to the art museum
the road trip we took on ward's birthday 
the nightly fires we built (and stoked and loved) in the teeny tiny log cabin
how I fell in love with that fireplace, that teeny tiny log cabin in the old log cabin motor court
how I never wanted to leave that fireplace, that teeny tiny log cabin in the old log cabin motor court
hours spent in asheville book stores that reminded us of portland book stores
merce cunningham on film, merce merce merce
a conversation with a stranger in urban outiftters, of all places, that left me reeling
knödles and bratwurst and strudel at an old german restaurant with a hundred beer steins hanging from the ceiling 
views from the blue ridge parkway, how they left me feeling dizzy and glad to be alive
the quiet pop of cranberries cooking
the baking of my first pecan pie
thanksgiving dinner at the table my brother built, with the people I love
the making of this list