Tender: Cowlicky whorls in the hair of young boys and old men. Being pulled into a kitchen slow dance. A bashful niece sing-songing, “I love yoooou” and reaching to hold hands.
Forlornly festive: Left-behind twinkle lights framing the window of a shuttered shop. Deflated Christmas decorations littered across a field like a massacre of plastic. Shreds of gorgeous wrapping paper so quickly going from essential to recycle bin fodder. Regal pianos in a closed music shop, grandly yawning into the silence.
Surprising: The vulnerability of a backstroke, totally exposed while pulling my entire skeleton toward an invisible, inevitable wall. How suddenly, like a slammed door, you can let go of something heavy and it not make another single peep. That people can be surprised about violence that erupts in completely predictable ways, after simmering so long behind social media and the Confederate flag.
Cheeky: My phone’s warning that an app “may misbehave” if I close it. A nephew in my tiny living room, asking where the living room is. “Hmmm,” he murmurs when told he’s standing in it. “It’s smaller than I expected.”
Oddly transcendent: Eating favorite popcorn in a strobe-lit car wash, listening to this song.
Angry: Feeling momentary rage with someone and texting an affirming poem instead. While blow-drying my hair: planning devastating responses to arguments I’ve never had, and probably never will. Believing latent anger will make me a natural at axe-throwing, but every launch of the blade turns out meek and almost regretful.
Close calls: From a distance, thinking a stranger is about to get hit while crossing the busy highway barrier {reality: it’s a large trash bag blowing over}. Returning a rental car in the one-day reservation window with only minutes to spare. Doing a double-take at a book called Grief Cabbage {actual title: Grief Cottage}.
How do we get the recipe for Grief Cabbage, though?
Jotting Julie 