I slow-roast grape tomatoes and try not to eat them all before storing them in the mason jar. It’s hard to restrain myself.
While cleaning, I find the note my daughter wrote to me when she was very little: I love you. I hope your nose fells [sic] better. I find this note each time I clean, each time I come to the shelf on which it rests. Each time it is a gift. I think, Yes, sweetpea, my nose is so much better and I love you too. Every single time.
The cool air floats through the open windows, relief from summer’s heat and humidity. I am not even a little sad to wave goodbye to summer.
The birds at the new feeder are hungry and they eat so much. I fill the feeder every other day. I wonder why it took me so long to replace the old feeder because look how happy they seem. I notice how happy I am when I watch them seeming happy.
I try to write a poem loosely inspired by André Breton. I mistakenly think it will be easy. I should know better. It is not easy.
My daughter and I take a walk with the pup. We talk about writing and inner critics. She shares an idea with me and I tell her it’s brilliant. I think I catch her smile. Later we take a bike ride with her brother. There is no talk of writing but there are smiles.