the grade school kids I pass prance with excitement as they walk with their friends, skipping and spinning with gossipy proclamations about someone at school one starts to walk backwards, then another chases that one around the circle of three, probably the older ones who are leaning in together, laughing at something I watch myself as I pass a car window and all I can think of is colts and a mare

Amaji sits like a lotus flower, upright in a chair on a stage, prowling the audience with the eyes of a mischievous child two hours standing in a hot line, my husband finally approaches her assistants, kneels and bows Don’t touch her, she’ll reach out to you wrapped in layers of pure white cotton, she appears substantial, very unfrail like soft taffy, embraceable, she leans forward, hands wide but it’s a half hug, a clasp of arms with no chins or shoulders touching no

6:20, I drag out of bed, stumble to the coffee machine read and write texts to friends, check email, mix kibbles, chicken and broth for the dogs with leftover pasta for me, pick up newspaper, water potted mangoes and basil, dump trash plug in electric car as I leave the garage besides that, there’s dozens of stops and starts from one room to the next, things to retrieve, move, put back, shifting the objects of morning all the remembered, forgotten, then remembered and forgo