Saturday, July 26, 2025, 59* 0705
A chipmunk scolds as we enter morning. If he wants the silence of a Saturday to himself, he should be quiet. I can’t determine from this distance, from a photo, from a video, if that is water Soleil lights, or dirt. It doesn’t move; nothing moves in it. Some unidentified bug with wings flies through my frame, takes in the sun shining on the undetermined. Haven’t seen the buck for days. Dark clouds yesterday, wind. Rain coming toward the coast missed us.
I shouldn’t be holding the blade toward me my husband had gently admonished. I push the knife under the rim of the white seal, continue around the top of the blue container loosening, trying not to rip, tear or mutilate, trying to save the wax-coated cardboard to push inside the screw-on lid, to keep the collagen from clumping. There’s probably a freshness packet in here, or is that only in the stuff I put on the dogs’ food? I should’ve done this last night when my hand was more flexible, when fingers were not as prone to losing connection, unable to straighten, to let go of what I’m holding.
Years away from us, your words,
a gentle reminder about more than knives.
Photo: LJ Austin
