Route 153

Gestation October 21, 2010

October has gotten so big, its O now so round that you don’t want to be caught looking directly at it. You don’t want to embarrass October—or embarrass yourself, maybe. You don’t want October to notice you noticing.

It’s all happening so quickly. It’s very nearly over. Each day is assigned a greater number. Something is building.

Something dark, something cold, is about to be birthed.

Reasons October 19, 2010

Because I’d managed to carve out ninety minutes to address art-show invitations, because I’d skipped yoga class to do that, because any invite to the Fullers is a reason to say yes, because Liz was visiting them for the first time since New Year’s, because she was making spring rolls and peanut noodles, because I would get to watch her expertly wrap the rice paper around the freshest ingredients, because I’d been working my ass off all day, because I’d perfectly matched a Maryland wine to the spiciness of the meal, because Dan would bring out even more good wine, because from the passenger seat the way home is filled with stars and eyeshine, I spent another perfectly serviceable Monday night at a dinner party, which will very likely affect my Tuesday.

Thanksgiving October 11, 2010

Biking the rail trail in some of the last sunny heat of the season, we happened upon a dear neighbor, and suddenly, our Thanksgiving plans are set: we will be feasting on Route 153 with good friends, which indeed celebrates those things for which we are most thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving, my dear Canadian friends.

As the Leaves Turn October 7, 2010

That it was still warm enough for a porch party, even after dark, on Tuesday night at the bend in the river, was a blessing, as was the gynocentric gathering itself: a reminder of who is around—some sometimes, some always—and how lucky we are right now.

A Series of Things: The Bathroom Scale October 1, 2010

It’s the only scale I’ve ever had, the only one I’ve trusted. My parents probably got it before I was born. It is yellow, rusty, hideous. The vinyl top is peeling around the edges.

Counselor, it’s called. “Not legal for trade,” it reads, in small print. “Made in the U.S.A.”

When I was a teenager, I mounted it three, four, five times a day. Back then, I had to take it out of the carpeted bathroom, into the wood-floor hallway to get an accurate reading. The carpet subtracted pounds. I needed to know the truth.

Now, we don’t get together for months. I mean, I usually know what’s going on—I can feel it. If I need reassurance, or a lecture, I visit. It lives in the dark recesses of my bedroom closet, where I need to dig it out.

That baby can go to 260 in seconds, and on my good days, I push it halfway there.