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
Showing posts with label things I want to remember. Show all posts
Showing posts with label things I want to remember. Show all posts
29 November 2019
02 November 2019
337/365
things I want to remember about october:
ezra yelling from the top of the stairs: look at the peach-colored clouds, ma
the leaves that fell all around me while I rocked in the hammock
the discovery of those silvery bits on the back of the wings of that butterfly
a text from ava, seven inches of her hair cut off, her face luminous
the watching of old video footage of a trip to italy with ward in 1999
the watching of old video footage of ezra's very first birthday
the watching of old video footage of halloweens past
the milky white pumpkin with the tall, winding stem that called my name
the way I stood at the top of the falls after the crowd cleared
the way I breathed in that cold air for a few seconds, that sea of burnt yellow
david bowie on the turntable and chocolate chip cookies in the oven on a friday night
windows all the way open and fat stacks of pancakes on a saturday morning
the first real backyard bonfire of the season
the yearly resurrection of mister bones and pumpkins drawn, cut and colored with toddler hands
ava and cara and the impossible gaggle of rainbow balloons they tried to squeeze into the car
ezra's complex, ever-evolving lego handshake
that morning walk with ward in the fog
silent book club in a dark pub on a monday night
the slow, miraculous transformation of the big tree on the corner
the moon from my window, like a silver coin, spied at 3:30 in the morning
the mysterious bronze urn left in a parking space at the church
the morning I stopped and pointed my SX-70 at the kitchen window
the morning I stood beneath the trees in our backyard, the ones just beginning to change
the way the sunlight deepened the reds of those leaves, like a volume dial turned all the way up
a facetime call with a good friend, like a shot in the arm, like a magic serum
the halloween package I put together for ava, with chocolate eyeballs and gummy worms and old halloween photographs
scary movies and air mattresses on living room floors on a saturday night
light pouring in through windows in an old church on a sunday morning
a loaf of pumpkin bread, warm and dense
the glow of two jack-o-lanterns
a handful of hopeful trick-or-treaters on a rainy halloween night
the missing of our beloved halloween queen
a new normal
ezra yelling from the top of the stairs: look at the peach-colored clouds, ma
the leaves that fell all around me while I rocked in the hammock
the discovery of those silvery bits on the back of the wings of that butterfly
a text from ava, seven inches of her hair cut off, her face luminous
the watching of old video footage of a trip to italy with ward in 1999
the watching of old video footage of ezra's very first birthday
the watching of old video footage of halloweens past
the milky white pumpkin with the tall, winding stem that called my name
the way I stood at the top of the falls after the crowd cleared
the way I breathed in that cold air for a few seconds, that sea of burnt yellow
david bowie on the turntable and chocolate chip cookies in the oven on a friday night
windows all the way open and fat stacks of pancakes on a saturday morning
the first real backyard bonfire of the season
the yearly resurrection of mister bones and pumpkins drawn, cut and colored with toddler hands
ava and cara and the impossible gaggle of rainbow balloons they tried to squeeze into the car
ezra's complex, ever-evolving lego handshake
that morning walk with ward in the fog
silent book club in a dark pub on a monday night
the slow, miraculous transformation of the big tree on the corner
the moon from my window, like a silver coin, spied at 3:30 in the morning
the mysterious bronze urn left in a parking space at the church
the morning I stopped and pointed my SX-70 at the kitchen window
the morning I stood beneath the trees in our backyard, the ones just beginning to change
the way the sunlight deepened the reds of those leaves, like a volume dial turned all the way up
a facetime call with a good friend, like a shot in the arm, like a magic serum
the halloween package I put together for ava, with chocolate eyeballs and gummy worms and old halloween photographs
scary movies and air mattresses on living room floors on a saturday night
light pouring in through windows in an old church on a sunday morning
a loaf of pumpkin bread, warm and dense
the glow of two jack-o-lanterns
a handful of hopeful trick-or-treaters on a rainy halloween night
the missing of our beloved halloween queen
a new normal
30 September 2019
304/365
things I want to remember about september:
champagne drinking
swimming pool back-floating
convenience store po-boys
midnight beignets
otherworldly courtyards
the way we looked at each other
the pop and flash of the photobooth
the scent of the photobooth chemicals
and then, twenty-five years, in our hands
wild cherry snoballs, legs dangling
bumpy, lovely bike rides down all the streets
the radio tuned to WWOZ 90.7, always
whipped cream desserts on the house
the soft loop of string lights overhead
extra deep bathtubs, extra hot water
the ghost of louis armstrong, the last serenade
the sliver of moon from my bedroom window
ezra's many splendored sketchbook revelations
teeny tiny happy cans of ice cold ginger ale
the sound of my cousin's laugh
that very first hour at the fleamarket
the man that sang for the junkers
the way I yanked myself up and into that monster truck
the digging through hundreds and hundreds of old found photographs
the dirt under my fingernails
that magic starlight drive-in
those wide-open texas skies
the conversations to and from
the changing of the light
champagne drinking
swimming pool back-floating
convenience store po-boys
midnight beignets
otherworldly courtyards
the way we looked at each other
the pop and flash of the photobooth
the scent of the photobooth chemicals
and then, twenty-five years, in our hands
wild cherry snoballs, legs dangling
bumpy, lovely bike rides down all the streets
the radio tuned to WWOZ 90.7, always
whipped cream desserts on the house
the soft loop of string lights overhead
extra deep bathtubs, extra hot water
the ghost of louis armstrong, the last serenade
the sliver of moon from my bedroom window
ezra's many splendored sketchbook revelations
teeny tiny happy cans of ice cold ginger ale
the sound of my cousin's laugh
that very first hour at the fleamarket
the man that sang for the junkers
the way I yanked myself up and into that monster truck
the digging through hundreds and hundreds of old found photographs
the dirt under my fingernails
that magic starlight drive-in
those wide-open texas skies
the conversations to and from
the changing of the light
31 August 2019
274/365
things I want to remember about august:
ezra talking about moonlight
a homemade savory tomato pie for dinner on a saturday night
the way I moved through the days before we took ava to college, one foot in front of the other
derek's honesty and old wooden church floors that creaked when we swayed
the smell of gum erasers at the art supply store
a sunday night send-off for ava and the way we all surrounded her with so much love
ezra on the very first day of his sophomore year of high school
the old emerald green schwinn bike that sat on the back patio like a beacon of hope
the watching of ava's birth video the night before she left
a package in the mail from my dad, my mom's prayer journal inside (which I have been unable to open and read)
the lightest, slightest fluttery shadows of butterflies on concrete
the last words we exchanged, the way she walked towards the river to meet with new friends as we drove away
the way we sat in a stupor for an hour at burger king afterwards
and the silence in the car on the long drive home, slats of golden light along the highway
a seashell telephone conversation with a three year-old
a walk in my old neighborhood
the beginning of a new street photography project
a potato chip practical joke
ezra's beautiful drawings of his own hands and the beginning of so much for him
coffee with my dad on a saturday afternoon
the lady who fell off the pogo stick at the thrift store
the decision to teach myself how to sing lo boob oscillator in smooth, fluid french
marigolds in old italian tomato cans on the patio table
boozy slushies on a wednesday afternoon with an old friend
night hammock swinging, the roar of georgia night sounds all around me
the dead butterfly we found in the garden, on the ground somewhere between the zinnias and cosmos, wings open wide
the last of the very last of the cherry tomatoes
the cutting of wild sunflowers along the parkway
the hummingbird that hovered near her while she napped in the hammock
lovely amazing lazy laziness on the very last day
the promise of new orleans
ezra talking about moonlight
a homemade savory tomato pie for dinner on a saturday night
the way I moved through the days before we took ava to college, one foot in front of the other
derek's honesty and old wooden church floors that creaked when we swayed
the smell of gum erasers at the art supply store
a sunday night send-off for ava and the way we all surrounded her with so much love
ezra on the very first day of his sophomore year of high school
the old emerald green schwinn bike that sat on the back patio like a beacon of hope
the watching of ava's birth video the night before she left
a package in the mail from my dad, my mom's prayer journal inside (which I have been unable to open and read)
the lightest, slightest fluttery shadows of butterflies on concrete
the last words we exchanged, the way she walked towards the river to meet with new friends as we drove away
the way we sat in a stupor for an hour at burger king afterwards
and the silence in the car on the long drive home, slats of golden light along the highway
a seashell telephone conversation with a three year-old
a walk in my old neighborhood
the beginning of a new street photography project
a potato chip practical joke
ezra's beautiful drawings of his own hands and the beginning of so much for him
coffee with my dad on a saturday afternoon
the lady who fell off the pogo stick at the thrift store
the decision to teach myself how to sing lo boob oscillator in smooth, fluid french
marigolds in old italian tomato cans on the patio table
boozy slushies on a wednesday afternoon with an old friend
night hammock swinging, the roar of georgia night sounds all around me
the dead butterfly we found in the garden, on the ground somewhere between the zinnias and cosmos, wings open wide
the last of the very last of the cherry tomatoes
the cutting of wild sunflowers along the parkway
ava home from college for the first time for the long weekend
breakfast all together at the dining room table with the sun pouring in and the day laid out before usthe hummingbird that hovered near her while she napped in the hammock
lovely amazing lazy laziness on the very last day
the promise of new orleans
31 July 2019
243/365
things I want to remember about july:
my body in the ocean on the very first day
cherry cola slurpees from the 7-11 next door
eight of us crammed into that little condo, sleeping on air mattresses and couches, all sunburnt bodies and limbs and laughing
the lettered olive ezra found, the most perfect, most beautiful lettered olive I have ever seen
the cracking of waves against a burnt wooden wall, the way it thrilled us (and soaked us) every time, every single time
the small true tulip I saw go tumbling along before I plucked it out of the shallows for myself (truly, my find of the week)
ezra's breathy fourth of july declaration, caught on video, now forever a part of our family vernacular
ava's swimming pool instax shots all lined up on the bed
ward floating on his back in the ocean
a daily jumble of rainbow beach umbrellas
a miraculous nightly materialization of The Neon Pink Sunset
a cherry sno-cone to beat all cherry sno-cones, consumed in the last moments, whilst walking the pier
a burst of diablo blend cosmos in the garden upon my return
a skirt full of harvested cherry tomatoes, too
how jimmy met mont, over and over and over again
the invariable comfort of cicadas at dusk
the making of tomato basil mozzarella sandwiches with things I grew
the gasping over the first sunflower, all popped open and awake
the small green praying mantis I looked for every morning for a week
the hot afternoon we spent picking blackberries and blueberries and peaches
the basket I brought with us, the one that belonged to my mom
(how she would have loved that, I thought)
the kitchen heavy with the scent of ripening fruit
the cobblers I made, I mean, multiple, so many cobblers
the skater I saw on the way home, the way he moved with every piece, every part of his body
the way he sailed past gas stations and drug stores and so many dumb cars, like a dancer
the night we lined the living room floor with air mattresses and pillows and blankets and watched stranger things in the dark
the way ava looked at me from across the room when she sold her first piece at her very first show
the moment I thought to line the kitchen windowsill with topo chico and old soda bottles and cuttings of mint leaves
the way it felt, like maybe it was the best thing I ever did for myself
the unexpected kindness from a reader/friend that nearly brought me to my knees
the way I burst into tears when I read her email, overwhelmed with the serendipity
ava's gorgeous birds, one on the curve of each shoulder
the way I sat with her while the tattoo artist worked, soft buzz of the needle in the background
the way I wondered what my pregnant 29 year-old self would have thought, if she could have seen into this particular future
ava's 19th birthday at a favorite old cabin in the woods
the kids on their bikes on the way to the pond
the chorus of lightning bugs we saw on our walk back
patty melts and birthday lists on a cherry red oilcloth table cover
(and in that specific moment, so much possibility)
the foraging for wildflowers for a birthday bouquet
mac and cheese and cherry cobbler with birthday candles on the porch of the cabin with family
magic hour polaroids of the extraordinary girl who first made me a mother nineteen years ago
bottles of coca cola on a floating dock while ezra skipped stones across the surface of the pond
a beautiful package in the mail, a book I was desperate for, a lovely handwritten letter, list, hand-typed poem
the way these things feel like such treasure, like such infinite, impossible treasure to me
(thank you, cate, thank you so much, I am so wildly humbled and so grateful)
an impromptu trip to the high on the way home from church
the cataloguing of bits and pieces that inspire the inimitable maira kalman
the goldfinch that landed on the last of my sunflowers
the sandwich ezra lovingly made for me
the painting ava worked on in the backyard, in the shade of two towering pines
the finishing of what is now one of my most favorite books
(thank you, beth, forever thankful for your recommendation)
a summer thunderstorm on the very last night
thus, a power outage on the very last night
thus, a few rounds of twenty questions in the pitch dark on the very last night
while I thought about this list
my body in the ocean on the very first day
cherry cola slurpees from the 7-11 next door
eight of us crammed into that little condo, sleeping on air mattresses and couches, all sunburnt bodies and limbs and laughing
the lettered olive ezra found, the most perfect, most beautiful lettered olive I have ever seen
the cracking of waves against a burnt wooden wall, the way it thrilled us (and soaked us) every time, every single time
the small true tulip I saw go tumbling along before I plucked it out of the shallows for myself (truly, my find of the week)
ezra's breathy fourth of july declaration, caught on video, now forever a part of our family vernacular
ava's swimming pool instax shots all lined up on the bed
ward floating on his back in the ocean
a daily jumble of rainbow beach umbrellas
a miraculous nightly materialization of The Neon Pink Sunset
a cherry sno-cone to beat all cherry sno-cones, consumed in the last moments, whilst walking the pier
a burst of diablo blend cosmos in the garden upon my return
a skirt full of harvested cherry tomatoes, too
how jimmy met mont, over and over and over again
the invariable comfort of cicadas at dusk
the making of tomato basil mozzarella sandwiches with things I grew
the gasping over the first sunflower, all popped open and awake
the small green praying mantis I looked for every morning for a week
the hot afternoon we spent picking blackberries and blueberries and peaches
the basket I brought with us, the one that belonged to my mom
(how she would have loved that, I thought)
the kitchen heavy with the scent of ripening fruit
the cobblers I made, I mean, multiple, so many cobblers
the skater I saw on the way home, the way he moved with every piece, every part of his body
the way he sailed past gas stations and drug stores and so many dumb cars, like a dancer
the night we lined the living room floor with air mattresses and pillows and blankets and watched stranger things in the dark
the way ava looked at me from across the room when she sold her first piece at her very first show
the moment I thought to line the kitchen windowsill with topo chico and old soda bottles and cuttings of mint leaves
the way it felt, like maybe it was the best thing I ever did for myself
the unexpected kindness from a reader/friend that nearly brought me to my knees
the way I burst into tears when I read her email, overwhelmed with the serendipity
ava's gorgeous birds, one on the curve of each shoulder
the way I sat with her while the tattoo artist worked, soft buzz of the needle in the background
the way I wondered what my pregnant 29 year-old self would have thought, if she could have seen into this particular future
ava's 19th birthday at a favorite old cabin in the woods
the kids on their bikes on the way to the pond
the chorus of lightning bugs we saw on our walk back
patty melts and birthday lists on a cherry red oilcloth table cover
(and in that specific moment, so much possibility)
the foraging for wildflowers for a birthday bouquet
mac and cheese and cherry cobbler with birthday candles on the porch of the cabin with family
magic hour polaroids of the extraordinary girl who first made me a mother nineteen years ago
bottles of coca cola on a floating dock while ezra skipped stones across the surface of the pond
a beautiful package in the mail, a book I was desperate for, a lovely handwritten letter, list, hand-typed poem
the way these things feel like such treasure, like such infinite, impossible treasure to me
(thank you, cate, thank you so much, I am so wildly humbled and so grateful)
an impromptu trip to the high on the way home from church
the cataloguing of bits and pieces that inspire the inimitable maira kalman
the goldfinch that landed on the last of my sunflowers
the sandwich ezra lovingly made for me
the painting ava worked on in the backyard, in the shade of two towering pines
the finishing of what is now one of my most favorite books
(thank you, beth, forever thankful for your recommendation)
a summer thunderstorm on the very last night
thus, a power outage on the very last night
thus, a few rounds of twenty questions in the pitch dark on the very last night
while I thought about this list
30 June 2019
212/365
things I want to remember about june:
strawberry picking on the very first day
the cutting of roadside flowers, the dancing as cars flew past
the first bright red cherry tomato
the first tiny chamomile flower blooms
the standing in the backyard with a bowl of ice cream and strawberries, the blink of lightning bugs all around
the feeling in that moment that nothing else really mattered
the way I could not stop laughing at the spinning woman
the discovery of blackberry bushes along the back edges of the yard
the discovery of a secret magic lightning bug place
the walks I took with lucy
ice cream cones in the car in the rain
ezras's fifteenth birthday and the junk food sleepover
sitting in the backyard in the dark with God
the cutting of the strawberries, fingers stained pink, kitchen filled with the scent
the organizing of four summers worth of collected seashells
the putting up of that tent, looking out through the top at the night sky
dinners outside on the patio with the little red and white checked tablecloth
the butterfly that kept visiting my garden
the black-eyed susans that lasted forever
the walk to the park, the time we spent on the swings
strawberry paletas from the ice cream truck, the long shadows of skateboarders
the film the last black man in san francisco, three times, three times I went
cut lemon balm in a jar next to my bed
the baking of a strawberry cake (with strawberries picked) from scratch
the hour I spent at the book store
the jolts of color that are the marigolds, the dahlias, the zinnias
the promise of the cosmos, of leggy sunflowers
topo chico bottles lining my kitchen windowsill
ava's unexpected bubble habit
the dragging of ava's mattress into ezra's room for adventure time marathons
the time I cut all the sleeves off of all my shirts and felt free for a second
the moment ava and I discovered the camping lantern also functioned as a disco light
the night we spent in the tent, disco lantern flashing
colors and pattern and infinite quiet at st. EOM's pasaquan
the traveling down the back roads of georgia
the standing beneath a three hundred year-old oak
the sky wild with pinks and oranges on our first night in florida
my feet in the ocean on the very last day
strawberry picking on the very first day
the cutting of roadside flowers, the dancing as cars flew past
the first bright red cherry tomato
the first tiny chamomile flower blooms
the standing in the backyard with a bowl of ice cream and strawberries, the blink of lightning bugs all around
the feeling in that moment that nothing else really mattered
the way I could not stop laughing at the spinning woman
the discovery of blackberry bushes along the back edges of the yard
the discovery of a secret magic lightning bug place
the walks I took with lucy
ice cream cones in the car in the rain
ezras's fifteenth birthday and the junk food sleepover
sitting in the backyard in the dark with God
the cutting of the strawberries, fingers stained pink, kitchen filled with the scent
the organizing of four summers worth of collected seashells
the putting up of that tent, looking out through the top at the night sky
dinners outside on the patio with the little red and white checked tablecloth
the butterfly that kept visiting my garden
the black-eyed susans that lasted forever
the walk to the park, the time we spent on the swings
strawberry paletas from the ice cream truck, the long shadows of skateboarders
the film the last black man in san francisco, three times, three times I went
cut lemon balm in a jar next to my bed
the baking of a strawberry cake (with strawberries picked) from scratch
the hour I spent at the book store
the jolts of color that are the marigolds, the dahlias, the zinnias
the promise of the cosmos, of leggy sunflowers
topo chico bottles lining my kitchen windowsill
ava's unexpected bubble habit
the dragging of ava's mattress into ezra's room for adventure time marathons
the time I cut all the sleeves off of all my shirts and felt free for a second
the moment ava and I discovered the camping lantern also functioned as a disco light
the night we spent in the tent, disco lantern flashing
ava, nervous and excited at orientation
ezra, in late afternoon light, magic, honeyed light
the violent rush of the chattahoochee beneath me
barbeque sandwiches and lemon merinque pie on an old greyhound busthe violent rush of the chattahoochee beneath me
colors and pattern and infinite quiet at st. EOM's pasaquan
the traveling down the back roads of georgia
the standing beneath a three hundred year-old oak
the sky wild with pinks and oranges on our first night in florida
my feet in the ocean on the very last day
31 May 2019
182/365
things I want to remember about may:
paradise garden on the very first day
the most perfect early eighties striped shirt
the seed packets I stopped and bought on the way home
the way they filled me with hope
the way it felt to put them in the ground
the first lightning bugs of the season
writing about howard
school kids in red shirts at the high, laughing and talking and wondering about art
listening to cassette tapes with my brother
watching him play frisbee with ezra from the bedroom window
the reading of library books in the hammock
red beans and rice and mexican cokes on nate's birthday
cousins with flashlights in country graveyards
the table we made from trash
how good it felt to stain that wood
how good it felt to make something
the hummingbird that hovered right outside my window
the makeshift newspaper paint palette ezra brought home from art class because he knew I'd love it
holding the vase he made, wearing the pendant he made
string lights like necklaces in the backyard
howard on repeat
fleabag on repeat
the most perfectly roasted marshmallow
topo chico in bottles, always
the painting ava made me
the tiny origami sun ezra made me
a mother's day floor picnic, with pizza and netflix
the way I felt when I saw that the first of the seeds had pushed through the soil
(I almost cried)
gudrun and her mom and her dad and the garden and the pink plastic flamingos
mint leaves in my water, between my fingers
the cherry red watering can I bought myself
the way the goldfinch trailer made me cry
the stories my dad told
the cleaning of the seashells, the way they looked in the sun
the slow, lovely unraveling of that ironclad routine
the unofficial beginning of summer
cut gardenias in jars on the very last day
paradise garden on the very first day
the most perfect early eighties striped shirt
the seed packets I stopped and bought on the way home
the way they filled me with hope
the way it felt to put them in the ground
the first lightning bugs of the season
writing about howard
school kids in red shirts at the high, laughing and talking and wondering about art
listening to cassette tapes with my brother
watching him play frisbee with ezra from the bedroom window
the reading of library books in the hammock
red beans and rice and mexican cokes on nate's birthday
cousins with flashlights in country graveyards
the table we made from trash
how good it felt to stain that wood
how good it felt to make something
the hummingbird that hovered right outside my window
the makeshift newspaper paint palette ezra brought home from art class because he knew I'd love it
holding the vase he made, wearing the pendant he made
string lights like necklaces in the backyard
howard on repeat
fleabag on repeat
the most perfectly roasted marshmallow
topo chico in bottles, always
the painting ava made me
the tiny origami sun ezra made me
a mother's day floor picnic, with pizza and netflix
the way I felt when I saw that the first of the seeds had pushed through the soil
(I almost cried)
gudrun and her mom and her dad and the garden and the pink plastic flamingos
mint leaves in my water, between my fingers
the cherry red watering can I bought myself
the way the goldfinch trailer made me cry
the stories my dad told
the cleaning of the seashells, the way they looked in the sun
painting, finally
the last day of schoolthe slow, lovely unraveling of that ironclad routine
the unofficial beginning of summer
cut gardenias in jars on the very last day
02 May 2019
153/365
things I want to remember about april:
my feet in the ocean
easter sunday with my dad
the beginnings of a garden
the sound of ava's bicycle bell
typewriter poetry
hours and hours in old savannah book shops
the girl in the peach prom dress at three o'clock on a wednesday afternoon
live oaks, spanish moss
the words of carrie mae weems, live
new leaf on the plant near the window, slowly unfurling
the mashing of potatoes
the comfort of cable television in budget motel rooms
the kids riding bikes to the underpass
record store day at wuxtry
joni mitchell on luminous blue vinyl
ava's art scholarship, sunlight on her face
lemon yellow ranunculus
thick air, soft air
the facing of a monumental fear
the tiny pink flowers ezra brought me
an easter egg hunt for teenagers
a small assortment of collected shells
the zip-whir sounds of the SX-70
william christenberry at the high with ward
ezra's vase, the shine in his eyes
the first cookout of the season
paradise garden on the very last day of the month
the beginnings of all the honeysuckle
my feet in the ocean
easter sunday with my dad
the beginnings of a garden
the sound of ava's bicycle bell
typewriter poetry
hours and hours in old savannah book shops
the girl in the peach prom dress at three o'clock on a wednesday afternoon
live oaks, spanish moss
the words of carrie mae weems, live
new leaf on the plant near the window, slowly unfurling
the mashing of potatoes
the comfort of cable television in budget motel rooms
the kids riding bikes to the underpass
record store day at wuxtry
joni mitchell on luminous blue vinyl
ava's art scholarship, sunlight on her face
lemon yellow ranunculus
thick air, soft air
the facing of a monumental fear
the tiny pink flowers ezra brought me
an easter egg hunt for teenagers
a small assortment of collected shells
the zip-whir sounds of the SX-70
william christenberry at the high with ward
ezra's vase, the shine in his eyes
the first cookout of the season
paradise garden on the very last day of the month
the beginnings of all the honeysuckle
31 March 2019
121/365
things I want to remember about march:
electric yellow forsythia
the making of a buttery oniony heavenly marcella tomato sauce
the making of it again and again
my first silent book club
ezra's sculpture on exhibit, my heart burst wide open
a box of clothes from the nineties, unearthed
the ordering of a clear bubble umbrella
sumo oranges, gold nugget mandarins
the sky on fire over ponce
things I wanted to tell my newly sixteen year-old niece and her friends, but didn't
sunrise over the city, twenty-one floors up, hotel like a space ship
marshmallow peeps received from my dad in the mail, handwritten letter, twenty dollar bill taped to the box
flower petals like paper confetti, all over our driveway
swirling in shopping mall parking lots, on highways and sidewalks
caught in veinous concrete cracks underneath the most unremarkable parkways
papery petals everywhere, I tell you, the onslaught of spring
my hands drawn by ava, exquisitely, on a monday afternoon
the sketchbook of hellos, thrifted
the kids in the hammock, reading
nape of my neck now completely bare, tufts of hair at my feet
my favorite rauschenberg on the very last day of the month
honey light in the living room around seven, finally
and that cardinal song
electric yellow forsythia
the making of a buttery oniony heavenly marcella tomato sauce
the making of it again and again
my first silent book club
ezra's sculpture on exhibit, my heart burst wide open
a box of clothes from the nineties, unearthed
the ordering of a clear bubble umbrella
sumo oranges, gold nugget mandarins
the sky on fire over ponce
things I wanted to tell my newly sixteen year-old niece and her friends, but didn't
sunrise over the city, twenty-one floors up, hotel like a space ship
marshmallow peeps received from my dad in the mail, handwritten letter, twenty dollar bill taped to the box
flower petals like paper confetti, all over our driveway
swirling in shopping mall parking lots, on highways and sidewalks
caught in veinous concrete cracks underneath the most unremarkable parkways
papery petals everywhere, I tell you, the onslaught of spring
my hands drawn by ava, exquisitely, on a monday afternoon
the sketchbook of hellos, thrifted
the kids in the hammock, reading
nape of my neck now completely bare, tufts of hair at my feet
my favorite rauschenberg on the very last day of the month
honey light in the living room around seven, finally
and that cardinal song
05 March 2019
95/365
things I want to remember about february:
the discovery of cara cara oranges
the discovery of a secret entrance to the creek
geese wandering in suburban shopping mall parking lots
overheard conversations in the lobby of the hotel clermont
losing myself in films and documentaries for an entire week
long walks in the neighborhood
a love letter to my library
a valentine in my mailbox from my friend gudrun
the look on ezra's face when I gave him a beater covered in pink frosting
the look on ava's face while visiting an excellent college art department
takeout chinese and cherry cider and fortune cookies on valentines day
small embroidered daisies found at salvation army for a dollar, promptly added to the gallery wall
double dutch bus vinyl found at an old used book store for three dollars, promptly put into heavy rotation
branches cut from trees in the backyard, brought inside and put in jars
dollar store candles lining my mantle
the inordinate amount of cakes I baked
the making of my first roux
the saturday night my dad drove all the way from illinois to surprise me
winter hammock swinging
christmas lights up on the front of the house, still
31 January 2019
62/365
things I want to remember about january:
tumeric tea
ezra's poem
ava's painting
charades and sleepovers
birthday cake for my mom
birds that flew overhead, en masse
how barry jenkins shows what love looks like, feels like
that one brand new very bright green leaf
mcdonalds, overheard
golden arms at the high
the plaza theatre with ava
tracy's package
gudrun's laugh
jen's text
waffle house waffles
toccoa falls and rainbows
paper whites and blood oranges
christmas lights, still
15 January 2015
this one
we were so tired that night. so tired. we'd been on the road for a week, spent the larger part of the day driving the streets of palm springs. the children were through with the architecture, done with adult conversations about easter egg color and mid-century everything. we made our way back to the motel 6, back to the swimming pool and the serious, serious business of cheap pizza and cable television. but the light turned gold, real actual liquid gold and just five short blocks from the motel, we remembered: the windmills. miraculously, the children did not put up much of a fight. large slushees had been consumed, extreme heat experienced, no one had much fight left. the day was still a fairly malleable thing. windmills, we said. yes, we said. let's go.
ten minutes later, we found ourselves out on the edge of town, parked as close to the windmills as we could manage. and we stood, in what can only be defined as a sort of desert wasteland. sandwiched between a stretch of highway and a chunk of train track, we stood. canyons to the right of us, windmills to the left, a sea of windmills, an endless, impossible chorus. below us, a desert floor so littered with trash we could not help but look down. palm tree pieces, glittery glassy bits, flattened cans from decades past. a toilet, a few tires, a flannel shirt, an old brocade couch. the deeper we wandered, the stranger the items. the stranger the items, the more excited we became. listen, the children were excited about the trash. you know what? so were the adults. collections were started, possibilities discussed. could we fit the ginormous tree branch aka wizard staff in the car? surely that palm tree chunk would make an excellent planter. hey, were those ray ban glasses? because we should not leave without those ray ban glasses. I don't know how long we went on like this. hours, it seemed.
the wind picked up, the last of the honeyed light fell over ava and I shot what would be my most treasured photograph of the year. as if on cue, a train rumbled past and the wind from it snatched that polaroid right out of my hands. we ran for it, all four of us, scrambled like animals to catch it before it completely disappeared. the same wind whipped hair into my eyes, sand into my mouth, picked up the edges of my skirt, flipped it over my head again and again. I should have been miserable, I should have been frantic. instead, I found myself laughing, half-running, half-stumbling in the direction of the polaroid. what i felt was joy. wild, delirious, unexpected joy. what was this strange, beautiful place we were lost in anyway? how did we end up here? how had it managed to completely charm us?
this. my most treasured moment of twenty fourteen, my most treasured photograph. 2014 holds a thousand different stories, a thousand different images but, this. the best of the best because I look at it and I remember and I think, yes. we said yes. in twenty fourteen, we said yes. when it was difficult to say yes, when we weren't sure about yes, when we were tired and didn't think we'd make it, we said yes. and certainly, it has been no walk in the park but the good stuff, the best stuff, happened because we said yes.
I don't know about twenty fifteen, I don't know how I feel about it yet. though there's bound to be some yes in there somewhere. I don't know about you but I'm rooting for the yes, for the running and the stumbling and the laughing in the general direction of yes, for unexpected desert wastelands and unexpected happiness and more honeyed light than I know what do with.
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