it is after dinner and we are trading plants out of car trunks at the edge of the driveway in the dark;
sweet alyssum, which I never knew by name until now, in 3 six packs and a giant begonia named marmaduke.
e takes the begonia (much to k’s chagrin, because where will it go in the winter), and k takes the sweet alyssum, for all of us to share- being that it attracts the syrphid fly, who’s larvae will chow down on aphids in the garden.
s gives me some tiny thai basil, and a parsley, and collards. it is easy to hold all three plants in the palm of my hand but soon, they’ll grow
conscious of my chewing (kale salad with pieces of mashed sweet potato) in the
silent kitchen just after
10pm – the dinner i found waiting for me on the counter
with a plate covering the top of the bowl and tongs
poised for the taking
as i slipped in through the door late, from this
and now im eating with my fingers out of the small blue bowl with shades of black and copper that i made (last November) and i’m on my fourth serving of kale salad because of how (small) the bowl is and how
(fluffy) the kale is.
as i am chewing
the light on upstairs of e grading papers and the pink glow from ro’s room (late night newsletter writing) and the empty space of knowing that f is still out on her first 24 hour shift (at the new hospital) all combined
(not to mention the weather forecast of frost) translates
to a feeling of a certain weight
weight of arriving
to a quiet house,
of identifying everyone in a place, their place,
of feeling a part and apart (at the same time)
washing the bowl out in the sink, rinsing my
turning off the light over the stove