Fuzz

In a funk. Of sorts. The fuzzy-headed kind where coffee doesn't help, but maybe crack would.

I want to read the Jane Jacobs book, but I'm tired.
I want to take photos, but I'm tired.
I want to talk to people, but I'm tired.
I want to write about my conversation with Ernie, but I'm tired.

Instead I play romper room and make playdough and playdough snakes with eyes and mouths that eat entire cities, trash trucks and all. We roll the trucks through to make tracks. Tracks and tracks.

Instead I sit with my daughter and read. Listen to her form letters. Invent words that might be right. She reads a line, "During the war," from a book that she chose from the school library, adaptation of Sleep Hollow. Earlier she asked what "Sysco" spelled as we sat in George's eating, talking. Wondering how to explain conglomerate.

Tonight we have a date to read The Snow Queen from a book given me by my grandmother. This afternoon we have a conference, the parent teacher kind.

Children arrive. Then they go. Then they come again and leave trails of books upstairs so that I know who has been there. Goodnight Moon. And another copy of Goodnight Moon. Runaway Bunny. The Mitten. Snowy Day. And another copy of Snowy Day in organized fashion, on the blue rug. This makes me laugh and I leave the books there because I want to be reminded, reminded of the people I love and that young is not forever.