yesterday.

*please ignore the overflowing laundry*

*first tight-wearing day of the season*

*dance party!*

*what a stinker*

*oh, i've missed those fall sunsets*

writing at night.

Untitled

Give me

His hands moving

his hands

down

my

back

At the window

We watch a leaf

curled

like old parchment

hop down the street

his lips on my hair

A prayer in the morning

I want Him to know

(He already knows)

I can't feel anything

until I've been touched

this fall.

This fall I want to

make pumpkin soup
go on long, chilly runs on the rail trail
make cinnamon-smelling potpourri for the house
throw a hot chocolate and fire pit party
take the husband on a bike riding date
embroider a poem
make glitter covered jack-o'-lanterns for the front stoop
make dried apple chips
possibly get away from it all
designate a family movie night
paint something, anything
clean up the house, top to bottom

What are you going to do this fall?

"For the first time in my life then, and just for a few seconds, I was able to see Doc Homer as someone I felt sorry for. It was a turning point for me, one of those instants of freakishly clear sight when you understand that your parent might have taken entirely the wrong road in life, even if that road includes your own existence. I pitied Doc Homer for his slavish self-sufficiency. For standing Hallie and me in the kitchen and inspecting us like a general, not for crooked hems so much as for signs of the weakness of our age: the lipstick hidden in a book satchel, the smoldering wish to be like everyone else. Being like no one else, being alone, was the central ethic of his life. Mine too, to some extent, not by choice but by default. My father, the only real candidate for center of my universe, was content to sail his private sea and leave me on my own. I still held that against him. I hadn't thought before about how self-sufficiency could turn on you in old age or sickness. The captain was going down with his ship. He was just a man, becoming a child."

Wednesday

green tea with honey
wishing on dandelion fluff
thinking about Michelle Obama's fantastic speech (and fantastic biceps)
thinking bubble baths should be a daily thing
rereading e. e. cumming's
marveling at the shady characters visiting the DMV
eating dark chocolate with almonds and sea salt
wearing my hair in this style
managing a little boy's first-grade-anxiety tears
thinking of camping but settling for porch sitting and s'mores
running the thought of college through my brain
realizing i am stranger than most others i know

lately, in pictures.