We live in an apartment with two balconies, where a squirrel we’ve named Eddie and another named Eddie Jr, frequent our potted plants to bury their cache for the winter months. They inevitably make a mess with the dirt they scatter all over, which my husband thinks is cute and I don’t.
The face of the gray horse, looking over the backs of the two bays, sits squarely in the frame of the photo, a line of trees cuts across the back of his neck like a far off horizon. The eyes have the effect of looking straight into the camera, though they sit on either side of the head, woeful eyes, cautious eyes, curious and world-weary.
I bought a “bucket” bag yesterday at the mall, because the trip to Paris in the fall got cancelled and I won’t be spending that $3000-plus savings to share a room with a friend in the 4th arrondissement, sleeping on the roll-out bed, doing all the touristy things, visiting Monet’s garden, of course. So, why not indulge?
I’m going to start writing my truth, though I hardly know it, can barely look it in the eye, though I’m terrified of what it will reveal.