ships passing

When we drove back from southern oregon, all I could think, in the disappointment of not seeing my son, was very Dorothy-like: there's no place like home there's no place like home there's no place like home. I clicked my ruby-sneakers together time and again. And I am here.

I miss my son. He has a new girlfriend, Lisa, and I fear that they will have babies and I will never see them. I fear that he will lack the ability, like me, of attachment. That he will always see the distance between himself and others more clearly than the places they touch. He is like me that way. Cautious, untrusting. In a book I wrote, I said, "knowing her was like passing too close to barbed wire." I am barbed. I am less attached. I am here. I am not there. I am no beacon, I do not radiate. I reject pedestals. I get along.


But today is Saturday morning on Clinton street, and I have been gifted this other life, this new try at humanity and connection. Today I will work in my many gardens.

I talked to Gwen on Thursday -- she occasionally reminds me what day it is and I go to this place where women congregate and for an hour and a half I feel part of something -- and she pointed out the obvious: I'm not very social. It is true. But it is good to sit among women and their screaming children and soak up similarity for a change. It is other-worldly, like being on a new planet where I don't know the rules and don't have the costume.

Self pity.

Today I will move six ferns to places where they can thrive and Sid won't piss on them. I will move the hydrangea out from under that succulent plant that is taking over, I will move the stargazer bulbs to the back of the garden so they are safe, and dig out, once and for all, the weeds. I knew weeds in southern Oregon. I don't know them here. Some are beautiful, and in the near-rainforest of this area, will consume my flowers and house if allowed. Like Marcel's blackberries. They consumed his garage. Swallowed it whole. Today I will pick blackberries and make freezer jam.

We have summarily decreased, by thirds, Sid's yard. He has 1/3, we have 2/3: one third deck, one third pool, one third dog shit. I love my husband. He picks it up three times as often now.

Sid shits.














We got this accordion at a yard sale. Put in on craigslist and a Russian called to buy it. See? I told you there's Russians around here. It is a beautiful, Italian-made "Rolo." After some investigation, we learned that it is a student model, and worth a couple hundred. I was sure it was the Strativarius of Accordions, but it isn't. Just a shiny red thing. He could have been Hungarian, or Polkan. I'm not sure.