Pretending I'm Retired

Melt six ounces of good quality semi-sweet chocolate and one stick of butter.   I watch the semi-sweet morsels soften, then flow, like a chocolate tributary to a buttery lake. My mind wanders as I stir. The first months as a new mother are now murky memories, but I remember my notebook. It was small enough to fit in my hand, which was helpful, because I carried it, along with the sweet baby, everywhere I went. No detail seemed insignificant–what time I nursed, the contents of a dirty diaper. I’m not sure why I felt the need to write so many mundane moments.  Maybe I thought if I tracked every move in a tiny spiral notebook, I could stay in control. Add two whole eggs and two egg yolks into a bowl with a quarter cup of sugar and a pinch of salt. Whisk until light and frothy, about five minutes.  When the baby turns twelve, he asks if he can invite ALL the boys in his sixth-grade class to the party, and of course I say yes. I plan an elaborate balloonapalooza and spend hours blowing up b

  It begins I suppose it really begins January 11, 1943, the day of my father’s birth. That’s how we summarize life, right? Year of birth, year of death. And a dash for the lifetime in between. On Sunday, May 15, 2022, I’m not thinking about dates, hyphens, or my father. I’m thinking about ants. “Damn it, I can’t figure out where they are coming from.” I stand motionless by the kitchen sink, holding my breath, scanning the mottled marble countertop for signs of motion. Gradually, my eyes adjust to see the tiny scurrying insects camouflaged against the dark polished stone. I aim the cleaning spray at the counter and pull the nozzle, emptying a stream of bleachy liquid onto the ant parade below. As I wipe away the evidence of my carnage with a paper towel, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Missed call from Dad. Cell phones I don’t remember exactly when Dad finally got a cell phone, but it seemed long past the rest of the world. Even now, he doesn’t use it, except to make the occasional pho