31 May 2019


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 
painting, finally
the last day of school
the slow, lovely unraveling of that ironclad routine
the unofficial beginning of summer
cut gardenias in jars on the very last day

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