This Perfect Weekend

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Images of a perfect Saturday:




Images of a Perfect Sunday:





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Four: Love in the Time of CoronaVirus

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Such magic. Cinco de Abril means our Joyful girl has celebrated another birthday- her 4th to be exact! She and I enjoyed our semi-usual 3.5 mile trek up to the fire station on 24th, and back. Lloyd picked up an essential chocolate cake and pizzas today, and Sayler and I had the wherewithal to get her gifts a few weeks ago pre-Covid19 lockdown. It was a most-perfect birthday celebration at home. In anticipation, I interviewed Alana Joy last night on her last night of being 3. Here were her answers: 1. What’s your name? “Alana” 2. What do you like to draw? “Me” 3. What makes you happy? “My class” 4. What makes you sad? “When somebody hurts me” 5. What makes you laugh? “My class” 6. How old are you? “Six” (she’s 3) 7. How old is Mommy? “Uhhhhhh... I can’t know (panics).... “I still can’t know!” 8. How old is Daddy? (Stressed and panicked) “I CANT KNOW” 9. What is your favorite thing to do? “Play with Sammy” (our dog) 10. What do you want to be when you grow up? “A teacher” 11. What is you...
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"Dear Bobby"

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"Dear Bobby, I love you. I always look forward to when my husband leaves for work, and you sneak into bed with me. Sometimes, you will wake me up, but usually, you just lie there next to me waiting for my eyes to open." Bobby. You are a cat. But you are the cat of all cats. Unliked some others whose names I will not mention.... you like being a cat. You are my original Obi Kenobi... But you don't like your name and insist I call you "Bobby" or "Bob". You are my predator. You can catch anything- including a rabbit almost twice your size. I remember the time you brought a baby possum into our home. I had just awakened and sleepily headed to use the bathroom when, peering from inside the toilet, was a little possum begging to be released. You cheeky bastard, Bobby. That poor possum. I scolded you and you just turned the other whisker, as if to say "look lady... I am a cat, that's how I do...." The other cats beg for forgiveness when ...
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Pink

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The girl's face is flushed.  Her cheeks are stained with tears and her eyes pink with hurt and maybe embarrassment. As my eyes caught hers for a moment we connected.  I immediately wanted to cry. I turned away, reaching for my phone to type. If I looked any longer I would be in tears to match hers.  Had she not listened? Was she a disappointment?  Her strong and well-defined pre-teen body seems to wither under her frail emotional state.   Her coach is non-plussed- paying attention to another gymnast on a nearby beam. He is the young coach who always has a serious look on his face (and who Lloyd and I agree looks like John Mayer).  I hear him call her: "Kristin" She turns cautiously his way.  What he says I cannot hear though she seems to respect his words and immediately moves into motion despite his unaffected face showing no sympathy to her pink face. Where does sympathy lie?  I think on a conversation my colleagues and I had recently- "the mill...
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