let lemons be angry

Second time I'm posting this, because it feels like that day.

Sometimes time jumbles itself up, and we can't remember sequences or exact days in exact months. So in my jigsaw mind I put yesterday after this playground day, and tomorrow after May. And all the time that comes after today is as good as having been passed in the last hour, because we behold all of the future in the present. Time is best remembered not in chronological order. I categorize it by flavor. So all this time is a sunburnt yellow, honey cream, sweet potato. When there is no night or looming shadows of adulthood and irresponsibility, just a late afternoon, and the forgetting of everything that is not pure and young and simple.

If you ask, I'll say I can't remember the first sweet potato day, but I think this photograph more or less lands the dart in the right area.

Fiver and ET were playing catch and ET hid herself well, peeking out at Fiver as he walked around the house moaning for her to come out. I called to him and he bumbled over and settled his fur-shedding mass on my desk, tiny slightly crossed eyes closing. I haven't quite gotten over the simple marvel that he's alive.

And ET, who I think is like me in every way, still surprises me with her sudden leaks of tenderness. I make the bed and plop cushions on her, she gets up and chases my hand and bites it, I flip her around captive in my elbow and ruffle her belly fur, she squirms and pretends to gasp and wheeze, I let go and she doesn't move away.