I was jogging around the block one morning when I heard loud music coming from one of the houses under construction. The radio was blaring “Sweet Home Alabama” and someone was singing along, in a nice shower voice, echoing through the whole plywood frame of a home. I could have given a complaint – hey turn that off, too noisy here – but I got a laugh instead.
I was going to get a bag of baby spinach from the salad section at the grocery store but a man and woman were standing there in front of the display. She was selecting salad while the man had his hand on the cart.
“She was taken off of life support,” the woman said looking at the lettuce.
The man looked at her, concerned. He was tall, much taller than her, tall enough to seem protective. From the way they interacted, I imagined they were husband and wife, at least lovers or good friends.
And I had a sense that they were doing some kind of dance in the produce section, distracted by vegetables, needing props to help them talk about the pain.
I was sitting in a folding chair in the corner of the gym with Michaela while Abigail was taking her dance class. A few other moms were waiting there also and I caught pieces of a conversation between two friends catching up. One woman was describing her work situation. Before kids she and her husband had been 80 hour a week Manhattanites. But now she was working from home part-time. It wasn’t as exciting as before, she said but it didn’t seem like it mattered that much to her any more. I found comfort in her words, as she said the cliche: “you can’t have your cake and eat it too.”
