There’s a weird muddle of things in my head. I may have expected the month change to clear that muddle. Alas, it remains in place. Happily, though, the rain that washed away the last of March brought April in a glorious fluster, pranking us with a day of wind storms. I fully expected that my beautiful magnolia, which blooms for less than a week every year, would be bloom-less by Saturday’s end. Surprisingly, those soft white blossoms have held on. 

I know my neighbor is watching out his window (there’s no curtain so I actually do know this) to see if he can get out his petal-removal tools. Every year, magnolia petals cover my yard (and part of my neighbor’s) in a whitish brown blanket which he then inevitably leaf-blows onto my yard before the day reaches noon. (He brought out the leaf-blower yesterday though there were not yet any petals for him to blow. It matters not to him; he finds many reasons to wield that leaf blower. How he loves that thing.)

Leaf-blower’s wife is also quite elderly and terribly lovely, both in her heart and in her face. Today, she told me that her son’s been coming over every weekend lately to help out around the house. Isn’t that lovely? Okay, now to Paul Harvey this story. Her son is nearly 70. I forget, sometimes, just how old she is – 93 next month, she proudly tells me. What a gift that is. I would offer up significant tribute to have my mom alive and as healthy as my next door neighbor. I would, in fact, be delighted to visit Mom every weekend and help out around the house.

Of course, about 15 minutes after her chat with me, Mrs. and Mr. Leaf-blower got into a robust bickering argument that caused me to slink gracelessly into the house to avoid making eye contact with either of them. (Close proximity is one of the many delights of city neighborhoods.) Usually, their arguments are funny but today’s involved some questions that are not safe (i.e., do you think I’m stupid?). I did not want to stick around in case he actually answered her.

I’m a week into car-lessness, resulting in some delightful snafus, for example, when I ordered Chinese food for pick-up from a restaurant two miles away. A roundtrip walk of four miles is not the problem. A backpack filled with chicken lo mein is. I borrowed a car for food pick-up. 

As I walked this morning, I met another neighbor whose dog is Max. I am sorry to report that I have no knowledge of the neighbor’s name. He claimed, during our Max adulation session, that he spotted a kestrel sitting on our street sign. I cannot confirm the sighting, sadly. I can report, however, that Max licked my palm. Achievement unlocked.

Many, many students have come into the coffee shop today, some of them debating the merits of wearing orange. I’m assuming that they’re talking about protesting but I can’t tell if there is a walk-out underway or not. Last week’s swattings here were devastating. There’s been a lot of chatter since about what it’s like to sit in lock down for five or more hours. Trauma does not require gunfire so much as the fear or anticipation that it is coming. 

The kids are leaving now. I’m seated at my favorite spot, inside the coffee shop but right by the door. The big garage door is open to today’s promise of later warmth. The sky is the color of my mom’s eyes, though it holds less sorrow and fewer clouds.

One of the fun things about my current seat is the bouquet of scents that I get to experience. Let’s start with the knowledge that the coffee shop shares this street with a Sephora, a L’Occitane, a hot yoga studio, AND a gym. In addition, lots of people “sneak” their pizzas, burgers, and cinnamon rolls in here … lol. As if we don’t all smell the food, the musky sweat, the overindulgent flowery perfume. It’s a delight for the … scentses (sorry, sorry. I tried to stop my fingers from typing that but they insisted).

I’m procrastinating right now because I’ve written myself into a doorless and windowless room. I am completely stuck. While my subconscious is working on unsticking myself, I’ve been paying attention to the stories around me. 

Across the street, a new business is going in where the Piatt/Sotheby’s used to be. Contractors painted over the street art on the side of the building. I couldn’t even tell you how long the art was there. It was lovely, a single scrollwork word painted in a multitude of colors that wept like tears. I know street artists accept that their work is temporary but I felt a little like weeping, too, when I saw what the contractors had done.

A young woman comes to the coffee shop pretty regularly, as I would know, of course. She reads whenever she’s here and sometimes makes careful margin notes in tidy, blue-inked writing. What does she think of the books she’s reading? Her expression, particularly her eyebrows, is very fluid. She has a fun face to watch, though I’ll bet she doesn’t know it.

It’s Tuesday, so the pizza shop across the street is closed. I wonder if the shop owner knows how many disappointed customers pull firmly at the door and then try again, as if the door will magically open on the second tug. It never does, you know? It’s a little like pushing the elevator button a second time, as though a second push will cause the elevator to arrive faster.

Many artists work at the tables here. One in particular likes to sketch in pencil. We’ll call him Andrew (because that’s his name). He usually comes into the shop in the evening so I only see him occasionally. If I’m lucky, he’s seated where I can watch him and try to guess which customer(s) he’s sketching. (Sorry, Andrew; I swear I’ll never tell your latest muse that you’re drawing them.)

There’s an older man at the coffee shop today who comes in frequently to talk to young women. I think you know what I mean but if you don’t, I will make it clearer. This older man likes to have the attention of younger women directly focused on him. He’s not harmless, though I know it is tempting to use that language. Men who make women uncomfortable have ALREADY done harm. Such men make women think carefully about where they will go, what they will wear, whether they should leave. Nothing about that suggests harmless. 

I talked today to the mechanic who is repairing my car. He called me ‘honey.’ He doesn’t mean anything by it, does he? Except that he never calls his male customers ‘honey.’ I’d be completely fine with the mechanic, if he can’t simply call me by name, using the same pet name for me that he uses for his male customers. And vice versa. Of course, I didn’t correct him. The power dynamic isn’t equal because he’s got my car in his garage. That ‘harmless’ pet name is nothing and yet it’s also everything.

As I write these muddled thoughts, my big old pup is dreaming on her sofa (it’s really my sofa but … never mind). Sometimes, at night, she dreams so loudly in her kennel that I can hear her snuffling noises in my room on the next floor. She runs in her sleep, too, which, when she’s in her kennel, can be quite noisy, though it never seems to wake HER. This afternoon, she snored on my sunny deck, her belly pressed firmly against the warm wood. I believe there may have been rabbits or squirrels in her dream but who’s to say it wasn’t just a romp across the yard that got those feet moving.

Much love.