Happy chartreuse puffs have appeared among the evergreens here. Oaks and mesquite are leafing out in between cedars. They look hopeful now, but won’t take long to mature. The little, tender green leaves shine in the sun, denying that they are part of the dense, gnarly, scrubby chaparral.

I take ginger steps along the riparian trail behind the gym. After yoga, it’s good to be outside breathing fresh air, untainted by foot odor and old sweat. The cedar I walk on cuts the grime like a blade, cleansing me. It reminds me of the barn in the morning, fresh shavings cascading out of my wheelbarrow and onto the floor of the stall. In a split second I dodge after noticing a hanging inchworm. My feet reach high over little mounds where squirrels have dug into the mulch, I plod faster. Five shiny, tall brown mushrooms have erupted overnight. The basidiocarps are covered in a cheesy white film, like little newborn babies. I dodge another caterpillar. The creek is flowing steady, after a good rain. Wrens are on alert, surely happy with all the worms. One darts across the path just before me, and disappears into the shadows.

When I have finished my stretching routine on the mat, upstairs in the gym, I look down on my white shirt to notice an aberration: a bright green inchworm with a shiny black head is trying to navigate across my belly. Without thinking, I take my shirt and slingshot it across the room, towards the Cybex machines. Old habits die hard; at least I didn’t squash it.

It’s midnight. I nearly fell asleep at nine but Damon arrived at the bedside with a Coke float. It was delicious, like the ones we sipped in the middle of summer twenty-odd years ago. I remember laughing, in between foamy sips, while watching John MacEnroe chew out the referee during Wimbledon against Jimmy Connors. I was glad for Wimbledon, during siesta time in Beaumont, when the sun shone too hot at midafternoon to hunt for lizards or ride bikes.

A sure sign of the season, a few loony White Wing doves are cooing outside the window. At midnight.

Happy chartreuse puffs have appeared among the evergreens here. Oaks and mesquite are leafing out in between cedars. They look hopeful now, but won’t take long to mature. The little, tender green leaves shine in the sun, denying that they are part of the dense, gnarly, scrubby chaparral.

I take ginger steps along the riparian trail behind the gym. After yoga, it’s good to be outside breathing fresh air, untainted by foot odor and old sweat. The cedar I walk on cuts the grime like a blade, cleansing me. It reminds me of the barn in the morning, fresh shavings cascading out of my wheelbarrow and onto the floor of the stall. In a split second I dodge after noticing a hanging inchworm. My feet reach high over little mounds where squirrels have dug into the mulch, I plod faster. Five shiny, tall brown mushrooms have erupted overnight. The basidiocarps are covered in a cheesy white film, like little newborn babies. I dodge another caterpillar. The creek is flowing steady, after a good rain. Wrens are on alert, surely happy with all the worms. One darts across the path just before me, and disappears into the shadows.

When I have finished my stretching routine on the mat, upstairs in the gym, I look down on my white shirt to notice an aberration: a bright green inchworm with a shiny black head is trying to navigate across my belly. Without thinking, I take my shirt and slingshot it across the room, towards the Cybex machines. Old habits die hard; at least I didn’t squash it.

It’s midnight. I nearly fell asleep at nine but Damon arrived at the bedside with a Coke float. It was delicious, like the ones we sipped in the middle of summer twenty-odd years ago. I remember laughing, in between foamy sips, while watching John MacEnroe chew out the referee during Wimbledon against Jimmy Connors. I was glad for Wimbledon, during siesta time in Beaumont, when the sun shone too hot at midafternoon to hunt for lizards or ride bikes.

A sure sign of the season, a few loony White Wing doves are cooing outside the window. At midnight.

Happy chartreuse puffs have appeared among the evergreens here. Oaks and mesquite are leafing out in between cedars. They look hopeful now, but won’t take long to mature. The little, tender green leaves shine in the sun, denying that they are part of the dense, gnarly, scrubby chaparral.

I take ginger steps along the riparian trail behind the gym. After yoga, it’s good to be outside breathing fresh air, untainted by foot odor and old sweat. The cedar I walk on cuts the grime like a blade, cleansing me. It reminds me of the barn in the morning, fresh shavings cascading out of my wheelbarrow and onto the floor of the stall. In a split second I dodge after noticing a hanging inchworm. My feet reach high over little mounds where squirrels have dug into the mulch, I plod faster. Five shiny, tall brown mushrooms have erupted overnight. The basidiocarps are covered in a cheesy white film, like little newborn babies. I dodge another caterpillar. The creek is flowing steady, after a good rain. Wrens are on alert, surely happy with all the worms. One darts across the path just before me, and disappears into the shadows.

When I have finished my stretching routine on the mat, upstairs in the gym, I look down on my white shirt to notice an aberration: a bright green inchworm with a shiny black head is trying to navigate across my belly. Without thinking, I take my shirt and slingshot it across the room, towards the Cybex machines. Old habits die hard; at least I didn’t squash it.

It’s midnight. I nearly fell asleep at nine but Damon arrived at the bedside with a Coke float. It was delicious, like the ones we sipped in the middle of summer twenty-odd years ago. I remember laughing, in between foamy sips, while watching John MacEnroe chew out the referee during Wimbledon against Jimmy Connors. I was glad for Wimbledon, during siesta time in Beaumont, when the sun shone too hot at midafternoon to hunt for lizards or ride bikes.

A sure sign of the season, a few loony White Wing doves are cooing outside the window. At midnight.

Damon watches the boys on the weekends, when I’m at the gym or running errands. He curls around his guitar, playing the slide to paint the background blue, while the boys tear up the house and yard (little satellites of destruction that they are). Most of the time, they hang outside. But the rainy days have caught up with us, and lately the boys have amused themselves indoors, heating up frozen pizzas, devouring bulk bags of pita chips and watching sci-fi flicks together.

Chas, who can hardly follow movie plots, has begun dressing himself in my clothes while I am away. The other morning he was wearing a diaper and an orange tie-dye tee, when he found my pink and yellow Donna Karan camisole. Quietly, he negotiated the cami over his tee, until he was able to prance around proudly with the new sheer layer, grazing the pink rickrack hem along the floor. This morning, while I was brushing my teeth, I watched him dig through my unmentionables until he found a pair of calvins, and squeeze his head and arm through on of the leg holes. So pleased! He paraded around the house with a sideways smile, and when we caught each other’s grin, he exploded in laughter, straight from the belly. I chased him down the stairs, giggling, and lifted him up the the table for breakfast. And then I grabbed the camera, so I could get a few pictures for his wedding reception.

We meet our friends every afternoon to play at a playground. It’s a standing date: around 4pm every day. By that time, at least one of the toddlers has taken a nap, and the big boys have built up considerable steam. They scamper, laugh, and shout potty talk like nobody’s business. Polly and I stand, exasperated, torn between roles of shadowing the little ones as they teeter on the edge of tall perches and jumping into the storm to interrupt the trashy talk. We wonder why they can’t just use other words, when quiet time at home consists of lengthy discourse on subatomic particles and static electricity. Why Ford can’t make any word substitutions when he’s so clever to point out that “I don’t like to snuggle in the bed like a pack of batteries.” Instead, we hear endless “BUTT-HEAD!” and “BOOTY BUTT-HEAD!” and “PENIS HEAD!” in the drone of play combat that orbits around the playscape following a stampede of little feet.

To make matters worse, Chas loves to follow them around the playground, bouncing and roaring, tumbling every now and then as he tries to keep up, but occasionally shouting, “BUTT!!!!” He bends forth with a red face to proclaim the profanity as loudly as possible. It’s hard enough trying to get him to say normal words, like “sock” and “help” and “horse,” but I get so irate when I catch Ford leaning into Chas’ face, to teach him to properly pronounce “BUTT.” At the playground, when people hear “BUTT-HEAD” coming from Chas, they turn to me, surprised and amused. At these times, my eyes try rolling back into the nether region of my skull, to a place where fading dreams linger: where my house would always be tidy, where I’d ride horses while the kids napped, and where my boys would grow up perfect.

Into the relentless sunny wind, Chas ran towards the distant airplane as it lifted off the tarmac. “DET! DET!” he shouted, pointing, and Ford translated it for me: JET, JET! HE reached the end of the berm and stopped still, apprehensive, as the jet loomed closer. But the roaring became intense, and Chas turned round and trotted back to me, quietly frowning to the ground, pink cheeks bouncing. I scooped him up and together we tracked the gleaming silver jet as it thundered over us.

Ford is into jet turbine engines. He likes to describe their operation, and tell stories involving turbines. He will pick up a gall off the curb and tell me, “Mom, do you know why this gall is so fast? It’s because it’s a jet TURBINE-powered gall that shoots through the sky and into your eyeball!” or “I’m so fast because I have two jet turbine engines, spinning like huge atoms, on my sides.” He has been into jet turbines for while, but I can’t remember what set it off, this fiery interest. These days, he’s all about atoms, particles, molecules, jet turbines, and electromagnetic forces. I’m not cut out for this.

We left the house on Sunday at noon.

The fog loafed through the canyon without much hurry,

and in our own haste I thought breathlessly about 101,

driving into town just before the tunnel above sausalito,

before hitting the traffic awaiting the Golden Gate bridge,

around 5 o’clock.

I was sad for a while after that, missing the eucalyptus,

thinking of how ridiculous is was that we had to move away from that place,

where Ford was born and where I enjoyed salty air in my lungs

simply because housing was too expensive.

The thought was fleeting, though, because the quality of life is good here.

And I like the smell of juniper about equally.

Around midafternoon we ran into thicker rain, to explain the mounting traffic.

When we arrived in DFW, cars were swimming in feeder lanes,

and flashing lights from towtrucks, fire trucks and squad cars reflected in the flood.

The following day, we spent much of out time in the car.

Why? Because I forgot how big DFW really is. In fact, we lived out of the car,

collecting disposable stuff and growing stinky.

Chas would go to bed later that night exuding that patented

deep-fried Twinky chimichanga funk, still in his day shirt, but too tired from

a fatty dinner to take a simple bath. Which is okay, because we were tired, too.

Damon had two exhausting days of training. A difficult thing for an introvert.

On the way home, I picked up my needles

and a skein of Peruvian kettle-dyed wool.

I smiled as we passed Willie’s Bio Diesel truck stop, in the middle of nowhere,

happily having left that muddled maze of people-clutter behind us.

While the kids were awake the ENTIRE trip back to Austin,

Chas occasionally would point to my needles and frown, reminding me to be careful,

by saying, “ow. ow. ow.”

SPT

Onions slide around butter in the shiny, black cast iron skillet. I throw in some red peppers, steam rises. It is dark blue outside the window, behind the black silhouettes of leaves. I light a candle on the counter, beside the stove. Next to the candle, the fish glides in a tall column of water, backlit a glowing orange-pink from the lava lamp. Migas, black beans and brown rice. Habanero jack cheese. Strong, dark coffee.

Downtown Austin, 6th street. In the rain, a circe 70s tour bus is parked in front of an old bar. Painted a sandy brown, with a cheesy airbrushed panorama on the side panel: Moab? Hipsters crowd the sidewalks, carrying universal messenger bags and wearing standard issue neutral clothing with close-cropped, tousled hair. Retro eyewear. Shades representing the many faces of a gray day.

On Wednesday morning, I awoke with a fever and an aching body. Chas sat up beside me, with gloriously knotted bed hair, and began to pat my head with thundering blows. Ford, still asleep, snuggled closer, raking his razor sharp toenails along the back of my leg. I remember searching for a focal point, questioning whether I felt more like puking or finding a hole to crawl in.

It was another bout of mastitis, and I spent the rest of the day in bed, rolled up in layers of flannel and fleece. I am lucky to have a husband who can occasionally work from home, and a good friend who can watch my children while I sleep.

The following day, I recovered enough to make the weekly trip to Costco, babysit and help the neighbors move in. It amazes me, the body’s will to recover when the mind is still feeble. It bounces back with surprising memory, catching us off guard as we try and coordinate our muscles to the impulsive drive to do more.

Yet, despite the quick recovery, the wellspring of creativity has slowed to a trickle; I find myself cleaning toilets and attempting to tighten ship, as if I were ready to set sail. Actually, we are driving to Dallas tomorrow morning, and I need to finish packing our bags. Maybe once the dust settles in the car, on the way to Dallas, I will find the focus I need. I’ll bring a skein of yarn in a lollipop colorway, and coast on autopilot while my brain sorts things out. Knitting is good therapy, like cross training for the brain. I know this much: cleaning the toilets hasn’t really helped much. And Lysol toilet bowl cleaner smells HORRIBLE!!!! I’m getting my money back. yuck. There has to be a greener way to clean toilets.