along a river
this fairy tale ferry stop
has stood a beacon
in muddy waters
kids get to be kids all day
while mamas paddle
nature is our home
found in Kentucky fire
lit by desire
Road Trip 2020, Day Eight
mother
Road Trip 2020, Day Seven
there is no escape here.
only evasion.
it’s up this curvy road packed with hill after horse-country hill,
packed with perfect fences and horses whipping their tails,
with cars zooming past, some honking at my hugging-the-shoulder presence as i pedal
pedal
pedal
past these race-won mansions,
these stacked-limestone walls that can’t trap me in or out,
into the sunny, humid heat of midday Kentucky,
so far from home, so far from home,
so near to everything that is hard and easy, up and down these endless hills
in a circle that isn’t a circle.
Coronatine, Day Sixty-eight (Passages)
she designed this house.
my baby girl, age thirteen.
(she loves her kitties).
she’s my crafty one.
my sweet entrepreneur.
my bright young woman.
and just like her cat
who gives unlimited love,
she will forgive me.
Coronatine, Day Sixty-one
I went to the grocery store today, and I don’t want to write about the nightmare I had last night where no one was wearing a mask.
Could you imagine, three months ago, having a nightmare about people not wearing masks in Target?
Actually, King Soopers was well-stocked today. Everyone I saw had a mask on. People at 8:30am obeyed the one-way aisle rules, and best of all? I stayed within my budget.
I made a budget for my post-work husband, starting at the beginning of May. $200 a week. It may sound extraordinarily excessive, but we’ve got six mouths to feed, and these are American prices, after all.
But I bought extras today. This bugleweed. A roll of packaging tape. And sushi because fuck Wednesday cooking.
And, my nightmares should end soon.
Because my post-work husband got a job, a non-union, non-seniority-screws-you job, doing exactly what he’s great at and wants to do forever, in the midst of a pandemic.
And.
And you can call it what you want. White privilege. True. Luck. Absolutely. Divine intervention. Maybe.
Or just… fate. The fate that led him through the Air Force to me, that led the boy to our doorstep, that led three beautiful daughters into our home, that led his previous experience to him becoming the best candidate out of all the others being laid off.
Coronatine, day sixty-one. It’s a beautiful image filled with pets, hope, and love.
And I want to hold on to this non-nightmare feeling for as long as I can.
And.
This cat was born to be a model. Good night.
Coronatine, Day Fifty-eight (Mother’s Day)
we’re stepping outside
into this beautiful yard
to celebrate love
it’s a bit risky
and only sixty degrees.
but it’s Mother’s Day.
each girl made a card
and worked to include this boy
in conversations
it’s as good as weeds
ripped from choking my garden
so beauty can breathe
Coronatine, Day Forty-nine
until they close this
we might be here every day
(Colorado beach)
humans love water
in all its fake and true forms
(dams, no dams, fresh, salt)
our Friday night lights
makes this feel like our old life
as fresh as sunshine
Coronatine, Day Forty-three
my perfect birthday,
in my mind, pre-corona,
would never be this
(there might be mountains,
a fondue restaurant, views
not in the background)
but with so much time
and simply nowhere to go
love works its way in
my middle’s painting,
a dress hand sewn by my mom,
hand-dipped strawberries
and saved till tonight
my oldest breaks, repairs me
with this card; her words
my perfect birthday
brought to me by a virus
with two gifts: Time. Love.
Coronatine, Day Thirty-eight
these organized shelves
ready to be fully stocked
with his last paychecks:
they represent us,
our Coronatine journal,
worry turned to work
work we’re still doing
with tiny pics on small screens
working for our kids
our creative kids
with a cat-house-building night
paw prints, love, and all
“new normal” softens
as we make the best of fate
on day thirty-eight
Coronatine, Day Twenty-three
masks: the new normal
mine’s hand-sewn by my mother
not bad on a bike
Coronatine, Day Twenty-two
dough starts the morning
(impossible sourdough)
kneading, needing, rest.
victory garden
burns through this false spring sunshine
as we drill, hammer
my boy is fearless
removing every last leaf
from our high-pitched roof
my girls love salad
work the seeds into the ground
ready, row by row
we plant potatoes
in our newly-built raised bed
(plants will save us, right?)
it angles others
in defiance of the times
(ready to win this)
my baby makes art
a YouTube challenge (with hearts)
and we win this day
just in time for bread
that rises as the sun sets
we are safe. and well.
