Tuesday but Monday.

It still eats at me, that one question.

I open the car door and start to place my things inside. I drop the cup of 1/3 coffee, 1/3 hot water, 1/3 frothy oak milk. Everything all over my white skirt. Tuesday but Monday.

What am I going to do when she’s gone?

But it’s a beautiful morning, I say. And it really is.

This is taking longer than expected. But I am outside, I say. The flowers are changing from white to purple. The tips of the redwood branches are electric green. The low whiz of golf carts passing by.

“I thought you were going to the high school for the game?” I am, I am. But these emails.

“I don’t even know these girls, and I’m crying.” “That’s the beauty of sports.”

Play-by-play of the boys’ game while we watch the girls play. Two outs, and he’s up. The lead-off hitter. Base hit scores the winning run. These underdogs are really doing it. On to the championship.

I look at them sitting over there in the grass, and my eyes start to fill up again. I look up at the sky. The wind is blowing against the tops of the trees. I like that I care so much, maybe too much. These moments matter. It’s fine. I’ll cry if I want to.

A glass of rosé and a salad and laughter and understanding and not giving in to a vanilla milkshake with rainbow sprinkles.