Today, a different kind of love story.
Last spring, we were on our way home from Montreal, and we had plans to stop at Aimée Wimbush-Bourque‘s house. She and I had never met in person before, but we’d corresponded over email a bit when my first book came out, and I’d sent her a note asking if she might want to meet.
From our very first meeting, Mrs. Meyers knew me for the sucker that I am. And she played me hard.
It was years ago now. I was at the grocery store, in the cleaning products aisle. I don’t go down there much–just really to buy sponges and Bon Ami, but the new labels caught my eye. The fonts! The design! I stopped. I picked up a bottle. I read the label.
If February is a grapefruit (pink and bursting through it’s dull rind),
and March is a banana because what else is there?
If April is a mango, hopeful, often rotten and disappointing but every so often so rich and bright, and May is just blossoms,
promises of fruit.
If June is a strawberry, soaked through and so grateful for the sun, if July is a nectarine,
juice running all the way down to your knees,
if August is a blueberry, sad and sweet, struggling to just be in the present,
then September is an apple, finally here, warm on the outside and cool on the inside.
Every so often I post a picture that includes the wall beyond our table and someone asks what is that? That, I say, is the map. And I always promise to tell the story of of the map, someday.
Hello from here. (Cold, cold, cold.) I’m going to try to finally wash my windows today, as the world has lost some of its usual sparkle.
I’m mired down in January already, just when I’d really decided, last month, that I unapologetically love winter. But last month there were bonfires and birthdays and cocktails and lights. I walked the puppy down to the river twice a day without fail, stomping over the snow and breathing in the cold air like it was addictive as tobacco. January came and the world froze and the news turned horrible and I was sick in bed for a whole week. Freida and I go out in 5-minute bursts until she starts to shake and I start to cough, and then we come back in and she presses her wet nose against the window again to watch for the dog next door who stands in the corner of the yard to taunt her. No wonder the windows are so dirty. I’m finding these little bits here and there, though. Sadie practicing Chariots of Fire on the trumpet. Joey putting kitchen mixes on my phone for me to find when I need them. I’m teaching my sister how to drive. Waking up in the cold morning with Freida under the covers, pressed against my feet.