A year of us | day 212

A year of us | day 212

day 212

So, the pie. I spent the whole day skirting back to the kitchen for pie. Rhubarb washed and cut. Strawberries uncovered. Dough in the stand mixer, the little one on my hip in awe of flour, fat, and liquid coming together in a solid ball. Divided in half, wrapped, then left in the freezer to firm up. Off to shoot, then picked up L and stopped by the café for a cookie and coffee before his doctor’s appointment. Back home, L and his friend ran through the house, dough rolled, filled, covered, and baked. The room was a sweat box by the time I made dinner: cheeseburgers, chips, and broccoli (for the win) then served it on the small picnic table outside. Delivered the right way, all of it would be charming.

A year of us | day 211

A year of us | day 211

day 211

Close to summer night. Walk to the library and market after school. Smell of burgers in the air. Ruby shimmery strawberries. Tacos for dinner. The New Yorker’s Summer Fiction issue, plus another collection of Amy Bloom’s stories, A Blind Man Can See How Much I Love You. The thought of strawberry pie was almost as good as baking a warm pie. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe we’ll eat them one by one on the front steps. A strawberry and a book in each hand.

A year of us | day 209

A year of us | day 209

day 209

I heard Karim Wasfi play his cello on the radio this morning. It was an original composition titled “Baghdad Mourning Melancholy”. I stood in the middle of the kitchen, water warming on the stove, sun shooting through the northeast window. I imagined Wasfi in a white suit playing in bombed out areas of Baghdad. Music flooded the streets where the sun once rose and fell through an open kitchen window. What a beautiful and brave act of resistance.

A year of us | day 205

A year of us | day 205

day 205

A few years slipped by since we’d walked up and over the hill to see the field of purple wildflowers. We used to walk that road every day in the summer. One boy grew then the other came and we didn’t return to our secret field. Until today when he told me the flowers bloomed and all those talks we shared rushed back. It happened more lately, snapshots: in school, out of school, before kids, during kids. Favorite books, road trips, summer hikes.