The Furious Gazelle

The apartment is so still just now. It is cool and gray outside. The news speaks of spring, but that seems like a lie as so many things do these gray days. The cats, 8 paws touching, are asleep on our bed. They release everything when they sleep. The city is awake but quiet.

I’m learning how to be mentally present such that I’m more likely to hear random things I don’t know I want to know yet For instance today I found out there is a vegetable named callaloo, and now I know what I want to name my future dog

As I reached for the organic cucumber, a woman wearing a polka dot dress over pajama bottoms and bunny slippers grabbed for the same one. With our hands clutching opposite ends of the vegetable as if it meant the difference between survival and a slow wasting death, we locked eyes in a grim battle of foraging supremacy.

My mom is hard to miss. She’s recognizable by her handmade skirts and Birkenstocks, by her playlists that range from Sinead O’Connor to Maroon 5. I can find her at night by the glow of Candy Crush on her phone screen. In grocery stores I track her by her sneeze: explosive, cathartic, followed by a “Whew! Thank you!” to all the people who offer a “bless you.”