I am blind to the tattoo on my wrist, to my shadow’s absenteeism, to the erasure of blue sky. Familiarity breeds forgetfulness. But not yesterday.
“Happy anniversary. I didn’t get you anything,” he said, and gave me a cup of coffee.
“Neither did I,” I said, and gave him a smile in return.
An annual exchange, now, for eighteen years.
Sautéed peas keep their snap.
Crispy-gold garlic and ginger.
Splashes of sesame and soya. Feeds
In which my solo time with the boys comes to an end, the family is reunited and I am grateful
Sam made more offers to help in the kitchen than there were days in this vacation. I accepted them all.
Ivan picked a tiny bouquet of flowers and left them on my bedside table where I discovered them hours later, wilted. I put them in a water anyway.
Max reached out to hold my hand as we returned from breakfast at a neighborhood restaurant. It was the first time in, maybe, six years that we’d walked hand-in-hand, and I expect another six or more will pass before he’ll hold it again.
Author’s note: It’s the school’s spring break, and I’m alone with my three boys. This is a diary of our adventures.