Last day for the Rivera mural; we can see a narrow section from over the near rail. Against a ribbon of hills and low sky one man swings a hammer, another an axe.
On the train to the museum, at the Embarcadero stop with my father, I start to get emotional. Tender as ever, having told a woman who loves me I cannot, or can no longer, love her.
Overhead the Kentucky sky was clear and went on forever. I don’t really remember how we parted or where I went after, only that he wanted to stay awhile, that at some point he hugged me, tucked a cig behind his ear, and started down toward...
I drive out Old Frankfort Pike past the ditch by the creek where you pulled off on New Year’s Day to pick from the mud that Jack Russell with swollen nipples and bring her back to the farm.
Yesterday, my son taught me the sign for lockdown— different than locking a door, or the shutdown we invented at the start of the pandemic. Little fistfuls of locks swept quickly between us, a sign designed especially for school.