Ten.Two Thousand, Seven Hundred & Twenty-Two
Is it Friday? No, it’s Saturday. Thank goodness.
I am the source of time.
No plans. All the children are gone. A quiet house. Chores done.
He says we should get a hummingbird feeder for the ones hanging around.
I take a book out to the hammock and stare out over the trees. Five pages in, and I already feel my eyes start to close. Are those raindrops I feel?
“God doesn’t operate in confusion.”
It’s a small group of us in a little warehouse space. Shelves of clay and works-in-progress; sketches; a piano; a large structure made out of cardboard.
Purple mountains.
She says her great-grandparents are from St. Helena. Or, as she likes to say now, her grandparents displaced the Wappos from their ancestral lands. And this is not a phrase I thought I’d hear come from this woman’s mouth.
“Y’all don’t do background checks, bro?”
