Each day I do my best to do one thing at a time. I sit on the balcony and drink coffee and I do just that. I wash the dishes with grace and ease. The birds fly over and I watch the birds.
I don’t live in the past—not on faraway bridges, not in Ohio cornfields where my pets are buried. There are parts of me there and they stay there. Today I sit at the desk and that’s where I live. With the quiet bamboo and the stack of bills, with the staple remover, the hand cream.
My calendar tells me what’s coming but I don’t place myself in its boxes yet. I live with the slow swing of the now, or I try. The finches taking dust baths by the curb of the street: I put myself under their tiny wings.