Stoops

I sat on my stoop last Friday, with a cup of coffee from the coffee shop down the street, “Good to see you, my dear,” she said as she passed me the cup. Soft and steady and without needing a response. A warm morning, summer steady on spring’s heels already, my favorite season in this neighborhood. Open car windows and 90s hip-hop and the trees with tiny leaves, we’re all emerging again. These blue-cracked-paint steps and a tiny promise to sit here on summer mornings, sipping coffee, letting the sun warm me, letting my neighborhood warm me. With gratitude for a summer without a 9am office time clock. And last Friday, with gratitude for the black car that rolled up with the window down and a life-force smile. With gratitude for the second cup of coffee from the coffee shop. “Black please, I’ll add the sugar.”

Battles

Last night the lightning woke me up before the thunder. I know it’s supposed to be the other way around. But that’s what happened. A flash of light bouncing off the walls, I could see with my eyes closed. It snowed in Maine this afternoon, and we had 80 degrees and sunburns here just a few days ago. “New England weather,” we’d grumble, but I no longer can lay claim to that title, have laid it down among the sharp swords of battles lost.

Losing battles I’ve walked away from, crawled away from, pulled my bones by their skin far enough away to feel the flames of the battlefield scorch only second degree burns.

Or perhaps battles won. So often the destruction looks the same.