On my fridge, I have a photo of my son from 13 or 14 years ago holding a baby chick. He’s seated in a chicken coop, cupped hands like a nest. Small as he is, the chick is even smaller. I read on his face a budding capacity for wonder and gratitude. This creature is so precious, and I have the chance to hold it. *I* do. *Me.*
And so I make toast. But not just any toast. It’s the omg-do-you-know-what-would-taste-so-good-right-now-?! toast, also known in my family as “pan toast.” Medium hot skillet. Melted butter. Bread. It’s better than toaster toast because the bread stays moist on the inside. It melts in your mouth. Pan toast is not Pinterest-worthy. It’s not Instagrammable. But it’s everything you ever need: comfort.
My question for Nicholson was, when it’s time to steer Cassini straight into Saturn, will you feel sad? Will you miss it? Leave it to a poet to want to understand the depth of our attachments.
It’s been a while since I’ve written online and in public, and I have no idea what the hell is going on in this draft.
Since I haven’t been blogging, I haven’t talked here about my most recent move: in August, I left Lark Street
a wet and cold evening. the boys played lacrosse in the rain. drenched and muddy, they filled up my car with quite the distinct aroma of boy sweat. and i couldn’t have been happier.
yesterday, my 11-year-old announced he was going to change his name to morgan freeman. i would be ok with that, except…