1. Green and breezy.  

2. She asks for hand pies again. I balance cherries on the mouth of the wine bottle and push the pits through with a skewer. Toss them with flour and sugar and cinnamon. Heap them into circles of dough.  

3. The same and yet not. They are eating up the land for ego; that is the part I don't miss. But I do miss the brick and the warmth of it. The feeling of familiarity.  

4. She's nice enough. We laugh about children and my introvertedness.

5. I need to shift my language around this. I am talking myself back into the spaces I no longer wish to be.  

6. Caramel popcorn.

7. Rest.

8. I've never seen one of my children pass out before. Eyes rolled back and lips white. Fire truck and ambulance. Him on the concrete, lashes fluttering. Saying his name over and over again. 

9. Two hours in the ER and he is himself again.  No fractures, no bleeding.

10. The moon. So big and bright and white.