The tree is gone, but we filled window boxes with salad greens and herbs and pansies, the windows gathering light they haven't felt in decades. I'm mourning for the tree, but cheering for the sun and celebrating with the sills.

I wonder what this summer will mean to me in ten years. It already means so much to me now.


Scenes from Sunday morning:
1/ Early morning espresso—we use this—with the newspaper
2/ Candles, records, and reflected light on the mantle
3/ Garden scheming without the landlord's permission
4/ Sweet potatoes which I don't have the heart to tame (or throw out)
5/ Baked eggs with spinach and goat cheese before a run in the park

It's late, and I have so much dirt under my fingernails—a sign of a day well spent.


I came home late last night to find that the pine in front of our apartment had been removed. A crater of loose soil was all that was left, soil that I would normally love to see, imagining what could grow, but now only thinking of what was lost. I stood looking out the window in the dark, crying, looking at the ugly cars with their ugly metal, their ugly shapes.

Goodbye to this view. I'm not a child; I just loved that tree.