I am too tired to write about this weekend. The most important thing about it is that nothing really happened. On Saturday, we played in the yard and I dug out kilograms of gravel that the city had put in my yard and replaced it with dead leaves and soil and planted flowers. On Sunday, I walked in the forest, which, I have come to realize, has become a church-like tradition and has even (maybe) filled the void I’ve felt ever since I left the organized religion. Except, when I was going to church, I always felt lonely and out of place, whereas forest is pure bliss, especially when it’s quiet and nearly empty of people, like today.

I finished Barbara Ehrenreich’s Dancing in the streets. I’ll be thinking about it for quite some time and probably citing it excessive, but I don’t have the keen feeling of loss I felt at the end of Julia or The Comfort of Crows.

– Mama, when you are dead, will I have another mama?

– No, baby, I will always be your mama.

– Did I have another mama before you?

– No.

– so, you were always my mama?

– Yes, I was and I will always be.

– ok