Tuesday. Tuesday? Yes.

Bird song sneaking in through the open windows. Sky changing from indigo to worn denim.

Sweater over shorts. I try to wake him up at 6, like he asked. I rub his soft cheek. He still has a little bit of baby fat. He asks for five more minutes.

One, two, three, four, five. A small cluster on the bricks that surround the empty pond. No more lemons on the ground.

Grocery delivery. Should I even still be doing this? But the last time at the hardware store…I just couldn’t.

Zoom calls across time zones. I miss them.

She tells me she can talk on Thursday, that she’s sensing that I have some things I need to talk about. She’s not wrong. There is a lot. There is so much.

I blame the margarita for the loose fingers. He chuckles to himself, says something about famous writers being drinkers.

I really these tacos had shrimp in them.

Almost every ear is dog-eared. How could this be the first time I’m reading this? I will pass then down on to her.