Some days are expensive
At the bustling farmers’ market — surrounded by babies and dogs and the heady scent of fir trees for sale — I eat a sliver of Evercrisp off a toothpick.
“Don’t ask me where they get the names,” says the man who moves among the apples, fluffing plastic bags and wedging them into the crates. He slices the juiciest varieties for sampling.
It is the kind of mild December day — mid fifties, coats unzipped — that wrecks me.
Someone has jammed a bouquet of dried or drying flowers between the food scrap bins.
The organization that collects these scraps, and spins them into black gold, got a stay of execution this week. An anonymous gift that allows them to operate another six months.
Some days are expensive. All days are temporary.
*
Just once in my life I'd like to do karaoke.
Ride a bike without a helmet: hair flying.
Take the train home from the finish line of a marathon, wrapped in a silver blanket, in communion with the city.
Extraordinary Time is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
