The cooing of pigeons. They are so loud in their nests tucked between solar panels.

Gray skies. Rain and wind in today’s forecast. A cleansing is coming.

So many little ones in the grass today, I dare not step into the lawn to visit the plants out of fear that I may crush one.

Two biscuits. I gotta stop making these if I’m the only one eating them.

Location, Flavor, Aroma, Balance, ABV, SRM, IBU.

The streets are quieter than I expected after what seemed like a rather boisterous Saturday in the neighborhood. I make notes to self: plant jasmine in the next house—maybe add an arbor of bougainvillea too; get yourself somewhere with a better view; but maybe I just need to belong to myself first.

What am I thinking?

It looks like rain. I feel a drop of water on my cheek. The clouds are now a milky gray, obscuring the sun. I head back inside. The sun returns. Of course.

“And what’s new for me, or at least what I’m seeing differently as a mom is that even living in a place long viewed as a progressive enclave won’t save your family.” - Dani McClain, We Live for the We: The Political Power of Black Motherhood

I remember the day I came to that realization. When the real fear of parenting was no longer about whether or not I would pick the right preschool or school district for my child, but whether or not I could truly keep them safe.

Coffee table jazz station on Spotify. Red wine in a stemless glass. “Die Wise,” “We Live for the We,” “California Calling.” The sounds of the television creeping in. The night breeze caressing my bare ankles. Too many open tabs.