"a thin note of grief."

Like I'd broken something really special — that was only half mine — and I'm not quite ready to apologize yet.

It's morning, grey and bright in the apartment. The buses go by on their hurried schedule. The neighbors argue downstairs and I hear the through the floor.

A package arrives in the mail from my mother. It contains another package, wrapped brightly in birthday paper, with a store bought bow flattened on top from the mail. Also, a card that has "Do NOT open until Jan. 30th! xoxo" written on it in my mother's hand. The "NOT" is underlined. It has my name on it.

There's also a note on ruled yellow paper which explains the other contents of the package: a sleeping mask and earplugs, a diagram drawn at a lunch with their financial adviser, and an article about "being the age you are."

Last night I watched the sunset from Indian Rock with a blue-eyed fireman. I didn't feel anything except the cool rising up from the bay — not hungry or tired or horny, no longing for any one thing, no content or discontent, no attachment to moving or staying.

Yesterday: a magnolia bough on top of my mailbox with my initials on it. Fat, pink, insect-burned buds. I put it on the counter for awhile, then in the garbage.