A walk in the green

A walk in the green

I am talking to my mother on the

phone, she is walking. In Point Loma

in tidepools. I remember my child self, waiting

for low tides so we could see little creatures

in tidepools. Feel their slimy bodies slip

through little fingers. Watch forever seals beached

on sand. All that feels so far away. Today from

already humid and hot thick with green Midwest.

My temporary home. I ask my husband, is it summer now?

I have forgotten what season we are in.

What month it is. Last week in New York

it was raining and I wore a scarf. Today

shorts and t-shirt. Today I unpack my

toothpaste. And take a long shower and put

my clothes in a drawer. For a while. I need

little—a drawer, a walk in the green. A call

from my son when a building blocks away is

demolished by a missile. Or at least a

text saying he is ok. And he is, or at least

says he is because he doesn’t want to worry

his parents. The way I don’t want to worry my

mother as she wades through tidepools. And I

say yes mom, everything is fine.