I was carrying too many bags home. Any was too many, as I’d pulled my shoulder Monday and was hot and famished on the L train at the miserable hour of 6 o’clock on a Friday evening.
Arriving home, I summarily dropped mail, bags, and purse on the floor and went straightaway to wash my hands. When I looked up I saw in the mirror a face I had never seen before. Steely eyes, locked jaw, don’t-fuck-with-me air. I wondered how often I wore it, and felt oddly shy, like I was staring at a stranger.
I didn’t have that face four years ago. I’m not sure how I feel about owning it, about living in an environment that conjures it. I peered in the mirror again shortly after, but it was already gone, my eyes relaxing to hold their regular—I hope—humor.
After dinner I weeded the garden, then put on my peach dress and walked to CTown. I bought one lottery ticket and a bottle cleaner; on the way home I discovered the nearly-full moon brimming over the brownstones on Hart Street. It is my favorite time, lost between day and night, blue, green, and black. Now it is late June and the evenings still have the courtesy to cool off.
… Sometimes I’m afraid I will not remember what these years were like, that I haven’t written the stories because they are not all stories I want to remember.