You don’t know where you’ll find the exotic. At the ball fields, empty on an August Sunday morning, a clatter. Look up. On the backstop, where hundreds of fly balls have bounced away toward the field, parrots. We lean against the fence like anxious parents at a game. We watch.
August 30, 2015
Of the weekend, we will say nothing, we did nothing. No movies, no dinners with friends. No parties. We didn’t change anything about the house or about ourselves. We went nowhere of note (a coffee house, the library). Time tiptoed along. We walked far in the mornings and witnessed others walking far, or running or paddling or pushing strollers loaded with dozing kids. The heat held off until noon. The house stayed cool. We lay down on Saturday afternoon and woke up three hours later stunned to find ourselves in the same day. We sat at the kitchen table yawning, the room as still as if it were morning again, as quiet.
August 29, 2015
After my last big trip* I came home and wrote myself a note. It said: Vivé, no one cares what shoes you wear. My intention was to hang it somewhere I’d see it when I prepared for another trip. My intention was to fend off what I’m doing now: frantically searching for the perfect pair of travel shoes. You know the ones: versatile, supportive, attractive, able to go the miles. (A pair of good shoes not unlike a good man, it turns out.) When I spent a year traveling I brought a pair of Timberland lace-up boots, matte black, waterproof or close to it, and a pair of Birkenstock clogs. That’s all I wore for a year. I don’t remember the search for those shoes, but I am sure it was equally fraught. These days with the internet it’s possible to read lists of the best travel shoes, watch punchy videos about why a cork footbed or bendable sole will change your life, seek images of a pair worn with pants, worn with jeans, worn with skirts. I fall over and over again. Shoes for me are the ultimate seductresses, calling me to a passionate affair though often fizzling out at first touch. The two options on my feet were worn over cobblestone streets by others who raved of their performance. And yet, for me, not so much. I remind myself, Vivé, no one cares what shoes you wear. Oh, but I do. I wish I didn’t, but I do.
August 26, 2015
*When I write “last big trip” I do so with an awareness of the great fortune of being able to use that phrase.
Some days are noteworthy only in their lack of noteworthiness. Granola in the morning. Old pajamas, the cotton worn soft. The computer monitor on the dining room table you know you should move. At the office, there is a spot open in the parking lot. At your desk, nothing pressing. The whole day, nothing pressing. Scratch a line through an item on the to do list. Scratch off another. Drive home through the neighborhoods and rest on the carpet while your husband sautés broccoli. Notice how fat the cat has gotten. Writing circle. Words on a page, written in marker, take you back to the french-fryer at Wendy’s when you were 15. Close the notebook. Listen. At the end of the day, nothing much happened. Exactly as you had hoped.
August 25, 2015
Mostly we saw her like this — through the crepe myrtles tending the pool that no one swam in. It shone blue past the fence, a filter occasionally spraying a jet into the air. Come over any time, she said when we moved in. We never did. But we waved through the trees, talked in driveways, rolled down car windows when passing by. Then a neighbor banged on the door, Mrs. Duckworth has died. Emergency vehicles swarmed the corner. Her son found her by the pool. She fell last night. I keep thinking of her lying there while our a/c unit clicked on and off all night, while the traffic on Riverside roared and we fed the cats and checked the doors and cleared the last crumbs from the fudgy chocolate hearts I bought for a friend’s birthday. We didn’t know. Don’t think about it, says the neighbor. After we finished talking on the porch, we went back to our days. Chris to his nap, me to my crossword, the neighbor to whatever was waiting for her at home. What else should we have done? I thought of the time I came back after a month away and she called over the fence, I missed you! I thought you had left. It was sweet. It was nosy. I got up and stood by the back door. Gloved men paced around her pool, collecting evidence. Then they pulled away, cars filing down the street. The water was the same blue as ever. On Riverside, people got on or off the bus. I sliced some potatoes into a bowl. Someday it will be me without whom the world goes on.
August 23, 2015
Begin here: thirty adults, strangers to each other, seated around a circle of tables. Where do you begin? A few chapter of Mike Rose. Plenty of nerves. A hearty dose of courage. Four questions that end with, What do you believe today? Belief, then. Begin with belief. It all unfolds from there.
August 20, 2015
Tired and exhilarated, hopeful and relieved, I arrived home from orientation with a hankering for gelato. It happens every year, the big ramp up for the day, the breathless rush of running it, the sense of miracle when it all goes off smoothly. Students arrived brimming with hope. They were surrounded by supporters — alums and advisory committee members and ACC staff and case managers and me and Amelia and Irene, all of us greeting them with all of our enthusiasm. They sit down cautiously. They listen. Across their faces flash fear and excitement, uncertainty and eagerness. Afterwards, tables returned to their places, pizza boxes stacked next to the trash can, paperwork filed back in our bags, I want to celebrate. My first year, I planned to meet Laurie and Mario and Chris for a margarita, but I-35 was a parking lot and by the time I got down south, the gathering was over. Perched on the upper deck of the highway, I cried. This year I arrived home and Chris was waiting for me in his pajamas. When I said gelato, he sped to the bedroom and changed back into clothes. But it was nearing 10 and the places were closed. I ate some chocolate and watched tv to wind down. So on Wednesday, the week half over, the next big class day ahead of us, we got that gelato. Chocolate paired with olive oil, a bench outside to watch the hip young world of East 6th Street pass by, we took it bite by bite.
August 19, 2015