31 August 2019


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
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 us
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


  1. this list left me breathless...
    please, please, summer don't go just yet.

    1. oh, thank you! and I'm with you, I feel you. hanging onto summer like crazy here.