I was going to write about how Donald Trump makes me terribly anxious, or going camping, or being with all of my brothers. I was going to write about how we used to go to the nude beach at the tip of Martha's Vineyard, make ourselves a shelter with my sarongs and other things...
stones and pieces of wood worked fine.
We'd curl up in the sarong shade, ocean before us, blue sky, red cliffs ~
But this is a tiny story about a girl I saw in a car. I decided to write this tiny story about a girl, maybe she was seven, who reminded me of how simple things can be. I was flying along at sixty-five mph on 287 South in New Jersey after dropping Claire off at my brother's in Connecticut. They were going camping for a week in Montauk. I was going home to an empty house, except for Chewy.
I was passing a car, looked over, there was a girl with blonde hair, round eyeglasses, a purple shirt. I was going fast but this felt like a moment of space. A big yawn of a moment. I looked over, we saw each other, our eyes met - this was a second, right? Then,
she waved at me.
I love that girl, her small kid hand lifted in gentle salute, how her wave carried me home.
That's the tiny story.
And this is a picture of a big bunch of orange carrots.