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By the size of your shadow. By the temperature of the drink in your hand. By the heaviness of wind against your wrist. By the twang of blooming flowers. By the fragrance of the books on your shelf. By the pull the push the stretch of your muscles. By the taste of the night on your teeth.

Now that I live 4x further away from my day job, I’ve been early / on time 4x more than when I lived just 10 minutes away. That math does not compute.

I’ve decided I want to use capital letters where needed.

Translucent, succulent, purple, bashful, incognito, yes are words I want to use more often.

With one purchase of the newly designed full box set of HARRY POTTER paperbacks, my recently restocked, rearranged bookshelf has fallen into disarray and I’m not sure how to remedy it. Re-sort by color? Author? Title?

The road race, they said, might cause traffic jams. I needed more information, so I called. “Can I still park on the street,” I asked. “That would be stupid,” she said, “you couldn’t get your car out.” “I don’t need my car on Sunday. I just want to make sure it won’t get towed, ” I said. We continued to be equally baffled by each other – her with my non-need for my car, me with her non-understanding that my feet work just fine.

That is, they did until I subjected myself to yet another foot procedure yesterday. Fortunately, I took it upon myself to move my car on Friday morning to preemptively avoid the road race blockade.

Nurse: “Do your veins move?” Me: “They never have before.” Nurse: “Well, that one just did. I’m going to have to stick you again.” My veins were jealous of the cross town move my body went through and they decided to join in on the action.

A seasickness patch is effective not just on the sea, but on a surgical gurney as well.

In a freezing room full of people and me with wires and tubes and masks and needles, loneliness and fear echoed louder than my heartbeat and time hid in the corner and memories ceased to exist.

Me texting C that I was in recovery and could she come sit with me: “The nurse said this would be like a drinker text.”

There are no restrictions on my recovery and full movement is encouraged. “Good thing,” I said to my doctor, “I’m signed up for the marathon on Monday.”

“find one thing in each room that you love. focus on that.”

teal towels. hooks in the closet. shoe shelf. floral pillow with pops of teal and yellow. my bookshelf. a mostly consistent color scheme. focusing on the tiny pieces has allowed my love to grow to a full sized studio apartment.

i’m all unpacked, and yet, i’m still unsettled. i crisscross the floor looking for scissors, a scarf, a cutting board, a bowl, tape. the unsteady pattern of trying to undo the memories of the previous apartment’s layout. the clicks and clangs and whistles and creaks come from unsuspecting spots. nothing is familiar even though it’s all the same furniture, clothes, dishes, toothbrush, shoes as before.

and it’s like all the heat i was denied the previous four winters was stored here and has been unleashed for me now.