# Seasons shifting. The way the leaves blush with indignation at the encroaching winter and shed their despair all over the roads, the streets.
# The first fog of the year. Makes the trees look damn ghostly—withered, naked limbs and all.
# Babies. How is it that they seem to double their height every time you take note? They make you feel guilty too — of missing the important stuff while you were on the internet.
# Toothpaste. The tube running low. It seems like yesterday that I bought a big, fat pepsodent — assuming (wrongly) that I would be long gone by the time I buy a new one. There’s still a layer of paste, waiting to be squeezed though. Time is running out, but not just yet.
# Broken friendships. They leave their shards around, crowding up the heart. Lets me know that my bones have aged, my cells are less careful when replicating, my hair feels like someone else’s wig.
# Holidays. When was the last time you celebrated this? This being Halloween. I marvel that I once won a prize for best halloween costume — something I called butterfly woman. It was a tight red dress with a feathery mask. College.
# the piles of books by my side diminished, usually because I have gotten bored by them and not because I have read them. books losing their luster.
Things that mark time better than clocks, calenders, the sun or the moon.
a faded dress, a broken pipe, laundry sundays, unpacking Christmas lights, attics, dusty schoolbags stuffed with skirts, high school diaries and the cold air.