April 25, 2020
It begins with a bowl of breakfast. Plain Greek yogurt with honey, strawberries, pecans.
Then there’s the gorgeous clear weather – and watching my children out in it, enjoying my friend Anita’s gift, dropped on our porch the day before.
Small hands turn our brick lane into a thing of textured magic.
I spend a lot of time in my flowerbeds. My Lenten Rose is still blooming luxuriously, its beauty tipped bashfully toward the earth.
I discover that tulip bulbs are gilded. I see it first on my screen. Is it a trick of the camera? No – I go back to look, and the gilt is certainly there, a dusting of impossible fragility.
I spend hours working alongside my son, mulching our large flowerbeds. We are tired and silly and grouchy and flushed, the gorgeous warmth of the sun’s light so welcome on our skin.
There are puppies, here for one more week.
And a tiny girl with rain boots and curls and dandelions.
When I am done with my mulching, my hands are a revelation. I’ve never liked my own skin so much. I will not be able to explain this to you.
Up close, it is like animal skin: a map of mystery and wisdom and pathlessness, all the things I have walked in and lost and found.
Probably you see dirt. I see what I am.
A perfect Saturday. I’ve been breathing easier ever since.
What makes your weekends memorable?