Equinox
On the afternoon of the Worm Moon, I stepped outside to plod my obligatory 5 miles and a coyote tore east down the street. An old man walking a half-score of small dogs was bent over, petting one or the other. Holy shit! I said. COYOTE! COYOTE COMING UP BEHIND! I yelled. The coyote disappeared, east down Flanders. I set off west. The sky was mottled; the air smelled of cherry blossoms. * Outside of our house on Grosse Pointe, though J. doesn't remember it, was a weeping cherry. For a brief moment in the Michigan spring, it exploded in a haze of pink blossoms. A month ago, I googled our old address, and there were photos from when I sold the house: my old bedroom, the kitchen with the chalk wall, the orange chairs, the IKEA pendant. I felt a hard knot in my stomach. A lifetime ago. * I spent the evening of the Worm Moon crying, angry as hell. We have water between the shitty vinyl floor and the subfloor of our kitchen. The vinyl has buckled and when I removed the thresh...