At the beginning of the day and before they go to sleep, my children peer up at the kitchen counter to see if the Passionfruit have wrinkled. Ripe when wrinkled, I tell them, and they scrutinize the purple-green orbs to see if any progress has been made since their last check-in.

Ripeness takes time, you know. Bought on Wednesday, I don’t expect these fruit to be perfect for eating before Sunday. They are patient, my kids, but eager. New flavors, the promise of sweet and tangy together.

The other day, we peeled and cut a cactus pear. Its vibrant magenta flesh beckoned, promising something divine, but their noses wrinkled, their mouths puckered. The seeds were too hard, Asher said.

My father has a wonderful philosophy on life’s hardships. Dad never holds a grudge. Something happens, he addresses it, he gets mad if he has to, then he forgets it all and moves on to the next moment. A very real way to live.

Last night, golden sparkles twinkled from the ceiling of the Detroit Institute of Arts. At least half a dozen attractive men with aloof expressions wore velvet or corduroy blazers over jeans and black shoes. I haven’t read Details or GQ lately and the oldest man I live with is 6 1/2 so I wasn’t aware of this trend.

There were so many stories I wanted to hear but didn’t get the chance for I don’t approach strangers readily. I’m single again, and yet I don’t feel that desperation propelling me toward a man I’d like to kiss even if he isn’t standing beside a woman in spiky heels or wearing a ring on his left hand.

So many chances each day – to become annoyed with the indiscretions of the others and stupidity swirling around me or take it within my careful stride and look only at the clear blue sky, unbroken by clouds, and the minty air?

I danced this morning with my lovely daughter at a mock wedding. She wore fluffy layers of pink and blue, her blond hair in a ponytail and her face all in smiles. She grabbed my hand and pulled me in concentric circles, her black patent fancy shoes bopping in frequent jumps.

The memory of my fingers against her round cheeks – soft, the living essence of real love.

It was just on the drive home that I felt that constricting in my stomach from an abrupt phone call and an averted gaze. Some people let nothing go, even in 17 years.

So there will be yoga later and quiet work by candlelight with wine at hand. I am planning my business and realize what a job that is in itself. And there is work to do.

Still. Two days lay ahead unplanned and open. I can be anything. Like the little girl I remember being, looking backward on my grandparents’ lawn in spring. The back pocket of my white jeans embroidered in all the familiar colors.

My golden hair in shiny waves, not crinkled into curls like it is today. I was happy then, and carefree, my smile open and gulping sweet, sweet air.

Once, I wanted to be the first female Jewish president of the USA. I don’t want that any longer. The best I can strive for is the belief in my eventual and continued success and an approximation of greatness under current definitions.

To sleep well.

To taste the flavor in every bite.

To listen steadfastly to those I care about.

To progress with every step.

It’s a good day. It’s a good day. 


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