April did not drown us, and that in itself seems worth celebrating. There was no tiny blue boat that whisked us helplessly down the Gowanus and into the Atlantic, further and further out, until we were only blue on blue on sky and then that was blue too. Instead we were a wash of fallen cherry blossoms and mandarin peel and memory. These are the things I’ve been thinking about: poems (this one) and dying and how Grandpa used to let us eat ice cream for breakfast; the museum in midtown with the deep ceilings; breakfast with Tess and her soft-boiled eggs; sidewalk mangoes with hot sauce; Sanj teaching me to use chopsticks when we were in our twenties and sushi was infinitely exciting; street corners and Sky City and boatcars; that drive into the mountains to see Mama Heaton because we knew she wouldn’t make it to Christmas; how far Hawaii is; how cold the wind can be.
Eva has started singing, and so afternoons, I dig deep, surprised by the number of songs I remember. It’s amazing how much we carry inside.