They Call This
C.K. Williams, 1936
A young mother on a motor scooter stopped at a traffic light, her little son perched
on the ledge between her legs; she in a gleaming helmet, he in a replica of it, smaller, but the same color and just as shiny. His visor is swung shut, hers is open.
As I pull up beside them on my bike, the mother is leaning over to embrace the child, whispering something in his ear, and I’m shaken, truly shaken, by the wish, the need, to have those slim strong arms contain me in their sanctuary of affection.
Though they call this regression, though that implies a going back to some other state and this has never left me, this fundamental pang of being too soon torn from a bliss that promises more bliss, no matter that the scooter’s fenders are dented, nor that as it idles it pops, clears its throat, growls.
birthday benny
and a very happy birthday weekend to the man that couldn't care less about celebrating. ruth and I will make and eat the cake, regardless.
image for Ginger+Birch
dreaming of italy
Even though we've had a week of 100+ degrees in Southern California, my body clock is still aware that Autumn is around the corner. And with every fall since 2011, my spirit aches for the beauty, the people and the food of Italia. The year leading up to our trip was full of hurdles and financial stresses but the wise folks in our lives urged us to hang onto our plane tickets and reservations and enjoy this once in a lifetime experience. So we did. Every minute of it. (Okay, most minutes. I got grumpy on a hike once.) Two months after we returned, we got pregnant with little Ruthie-girl and it was obvious that if we had cancelled our trip, we probably wouldn't have made it overseas for a long, long time. And until we get to go back, we'll enjoy our warm banquettes and delicious wines during our new adventures on the West Coast. cheers, italia
