31 July 2019


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


  1. I've said this before, but I love waking up to your daily list every morning - it's like a meditation - everything is so well observed, thoughtful and generally all-round delightful.

    Thank you for keeping up with it!

    You know, if you published a year of lists, I would totally buy it.

    1. a belated thank you for your kind words-- thank you! and I don't know for sure yet but a zine of lists just may be in the works.

      (p.s. thank you for the encouragement) xx