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  • Writer's pictureAbigail King

small things

In the other room, my architect boyfriend is on a call. For an hour he's been patiently, intently discussing how to work a project around not hurting an oak tree. This morning Kelly texted me about a tree in our neighborhood she sorrowfully witnessed being taken down, a giant pecan.

On the winter solstice at the last park yoga of 2020 (seems so long ago!) Clayton gave me a smooth rock small enough to enclose my palm around completely. Which hand is it in? Impossible to tell using eyes.

My rock moves around. Sometimes it lives on my bedside table, sometimes on my desk-- my first grown up writing desk; at first I was alarmed that my drinks left rings on the leather parts, then I decided to just go with it.

The family across the street has a baby. I see their front porch out the window above my kitchen sink. I spend a lot of time, it seems, at my kitchen sink. I love to watch the baby grow. We haven't lived in this house all that long but I've already watched his older sister learn to walk.

My small dog brings large joy.

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