It doesn’t rain much in the desert. And even though we’re technically only in the semi-arid valley, we don’t get much rain either.
When it comes, rain is a pounding, driving, soaking affair that reminds us how much we love the sun. But it’s an archaeologist, too, digging up the memories of past lives, memories buried in my backyard.
Each rainstorm unearths a fresh batch of peach stones. They rise to the surface like fossils, shaking off the silt and years. Some look fresh, are boldly wrinkled and light skinned. Others are dinosaurs, blackened with age and ancient fires I’ll never know of.
The peach tree must have been in front of the shed. The pits seem to congregate there, as if the old weed-ridden stump calls to them. Like a mother duck gathers her scattered ducklings after a sudden summer rain.
I always felt like fathers day was just a day for people with fathers in their lives.
Things I Learned from my First Half Marathon
Came into my first coupe glass today. Didn't so much inherit it as family circumstances made it available. I decided to celebrate with The Last Word, both boozy and sophisticated.
We cancelled cable three days ago.
Sometimes there's nothing you can do.