April 10, 2004

Leaves unfolding, whirlwinds of petals, chirruping starlings, sunwarmed sidewalks, blinking cats, bicycles, windchimes, and the tune of the ice cream truck driving past the playground around the corner. It is spring.

Every morning I surface to the heat of sunshine through glass, cloudless skies, and warm breezes unfurling the curtains. We climb through jungling gardens to arrive at Noah's for breakfast, with its line of young parents toting babies wearing funny hats. And the bicyclists with their clickity-clack shoes. The hippies with their kerchiefs and Berks, and the hipsters with their caps and chained wallets and Chuck Taylors. On our walk home we find the colorfully chalked sidewalk suggestion: "Please HULA! It's fun!" And there in the bushes are a purple and a pink hula-hoop. We obediently put down our bagged bagels and happily hula.

In the evening we sit around a fire in Jaime's backyard, eating grilled veggies and taking turns wearing the green-tinted goggles that make the fire look blue and everything else tremendously cinematic. Camille puts on the goggles and says, "Oooh, that is nice."

Lila Rose comes to visit. There is infinite conversation about everything and everything else. There are crepes in the afternoon and tea before bedtime. It takes us forever to get anywhere, because a break in eye contact would mean a momentary pause in our exchange, which we wouldn't be able to handle.

Sam plays guitar while I push my toes against the screen, watching people hold hands and unpack groceries and kick a soccerball. I could live this way forever.