Ten.Seven Hundred & Ninety-Two
He leaves today. I am ready, but not ready.
The light is slow to come. I wait patiently. I want to take a picture today. Not because I really have that much to say, but because I miss the practice of sitting with myself, for myself.
El Camino Diablo again. I prefer the Altamont to Vasco; it’s less hilly and there are fewer curves.
No ID card. Where could it be. I walk all the way around the gate to get to the office. But there are worse things than looking at grapes and vines and flowers on your way into the office.
I stick my mug under the spout of the Keurig and walk back to my desk. No computer. I forgot my computer. “A Tuesday that feels like Monday,” I say. Mommy needs a routine of her own.
We call. Monse isn’t working today but that’s understandable considering she got married this weekend. We try La Costa. I tell the young woman that I want to practice my Spanish. Tres tacos; asada, carnitas, camaron, por favor. Y una agua fresca—jamaica. She’s smiling and its either out of pleasure, because I gave a sincere effort, or because I way off.
Will I ever not be shy about relatives reading my published work?
I understand the transformative power of writing but it’s an odd feeling to read your own words and be moved. To remember who you were and where you were and how you were being during the time it was written. And then to be able to see and feel how much has changed since.
So quiet with only two of them.