My mom left portland last night after a long visit. She sleeps in my studio when she is here. This morning, while meditating, I inhaled her smells - neroli, fig, earl grey, chocolate, clean laundry, patchouli and slightly burnt toast with butter.
A late August sunlight in the shape of an isosceles triangle washes slept-in faces of bus passengers on their way to anywhere.
A knee, my knee (though at times it doesn't at all feel like mine) is now unswathed from its brace, and exposed to strangers' empathetic stares. I'd like to document every wince. A book of winces to remember the pain my broken knee caused others.
Half decaf and half regular Americano in a white cup.
A man in black smoking on one side of his mouth.
bicycle gears and rubber tires. The memory of my muscle, pushing a pedal, pushing a tire.
