Little smudged handprints in the stairwell. Legos by the fireplace. A black rotary phone by the window. Evidence of children.

Listening for my children. The quiet holds both anxiety and joy. Which will I choose to sit with?

Who is responsible for the Speedo? Italy? Austria? And why do so many pasty old white academics wear them? Geez.

Afternoon naps with orange cats are the best. The cardinal in my tree agrees.

The Roomba is “stuck near a cliff” in my living room. Sweat drips down my left ear. I hear crickets.

When I wash a knife, I place it blade down in the drying rack. My husband places it blade up. Parenting.

Spiral noodles boil on the stove. A fork clicks on a plate. An Uvalde teacher sobs on our American TV.

We are scared. We try to project strength for our fainting daughter. We fail. We forget how the hospital moved.

I cannot look at it—the sun—not directly. Like God, it requires a special lens to protect my sensitivities.