2001 was TWENTY THREE years ago. A person born in the 2000’s could already have had a kid. What a wild thought. My grandmother’s ring in the likeness of a frog, black and white and green all over.

A single stem of silver dollar eucalyptus, so green, so true. A star to light the way. Damp towels, dirty socks. Doing one thing at a time, like, actually. As in, running sans a podcast or music to try and distract my brain from the monotonous motion of one foot in front of the other.

Do I need to make peace with the fact that I am just a regular person? Or is the refusal to do that what makes people successful? 

If I were a good mother, my sink would not be overflowing with dirty dishes. Laundry would not sit in the hamper for weeks, both clean and unclean. I would’ve never, ever said fuck in front of my three year old that one winter day in Chicago, who then repeated the word. 

A cup of hot tea at 10:14pm. The stacks of color coded books. The stacks of laundry, clean and unclean. Still need to find a gynecologist, a hairdresser. Haven’t exercised in weeks. Deep, deep, deep breaths. Left an entire half pizza in the cupboard by mistake. Went to the dentist on Wednesday and cried when I got the bill; the receptionist kindly hugged me but in all honesty it was a touch too long. Falling asleep and/or waking up to thunder and rain. The allure of potted plants, the allure of other lives.

At least two to three times a week, Lloyd comes in for his bananas. On these nights, without fail, he shows up in the last five to ten minutes of opening hours and stays past close. Does he work until 8:30? Though he appears to be of retirement age, I don’t imagine Lloyd sits around at home too much watching tv and doing puzzles.

In late July I got on a plane and flew to Austin, landing on a Friday evening to a city pulsing with shimmering heat and a palpable energy in anticipation of the weekend . This was a trip originally bound for San Francisco back in May of 2020. At that time, my nephew would’ve been about 9 months, and my niece was not in existence yet.

Evelyn had just surpassed my mom in height. We watched Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune every night. My mother’s garden, the hydrangeas and sunflowers. My dad playing 22 with the kids. Hot chocolate in the middle of summer every morning with my mom, before I had awoken and come downstairs—their little ritual. The nostalgia of Jimmy Cone Ice Cream, a scrappy little place that I used to go to in high school with my friends.