Of dirty, musky-smelling potatoes
and greasy, hot, salty french fries.
Of magical carrots pulled out of the dirt
and carrot-colored Cheetos.
Of oat-bread french toast with real butter churned a few miles away at Homeland Creamery
Of bits of scrambled eggs from chickens raised by Milton and Bill
and pediatrician-sanctioned Goldfish crackers for an almost one-year-old still reluctant to eat solid food.
Of a trip to a Farmer’s Market
and a neighborhood a few miles away labeled a “food desert.”
and my 91-year-old Aunt Nadine from Iowa who has always eaten “meat and potatoes” meals and makes her own yogurt and can out-walk me.
Of the joy in watching a 3-year-old playing and running in the backyard with a new dog
and the impotent stupor induced by Brian Williams describing whatever new disaster or threat NBC has pictures of.
Of sturdy yellow daffodils poking up while I wear my red wool coat
and the shriveling blooms on the magnolia tree outside my office window because it’s not supposed to be below freezing in NC at the beginning of April.
Of the total unpredictability of weather
and our need to know what to expect about something.
Of triple-pane energy-efficient windows
and the smell of fresh spring air bringing tree pollen to my sinuses through the open window.
Of the fun of shopping with Kristin (with no kids) for Atticus’s 1-year-birthday-party outfit
and the helplessness of not knowing how my spinning head of vertigo ended up lying on the floor of Gymboree at Friendly Shopping Center.
Of how each moment of each day is precious
and how much that is worthy of wonder we choose not to notice.