I wanted to write about a turtle on the road, but Cavin Bryce Gonzalez beat me to it. I hadn’t even considered that the turtle might be suicidal when I swerved to save him last week, but now I question if he was, and I stay up late thinking about turtle suicide and wondering how I’ll know what to do next time.  

I wrote a piece titled “Half of a Conversation I’d Have with an Old Friend I No Longer Speak To,” but Tom Snarsky wrote it better. Even had the same “no yeah no” conversational rhythm as mine, which is to be expected because that’s how people spoke on the phone when they spoke on the phone, but I didn’t think about leaving white space for the other side. Brilliant. 

There's another story I scribbled down about the baby spider plant I propagated from the mommy spider plant getting its first stolon. It was a verdant attempt at replacing the sadness of infertility with something I could grow. Meanwhile, I'm wondering how Sarah Bradley's marriage is going after they moved the metaphorical succulent into the south-facing window.

If the obituary I’m currently writing for the three nestlings that died outside my window has been written about already, please, send me the announcement. I bet Tracie Renee has something. I’ve had trouble describing the way their gray bodies looked like a holy trinity on top of the fresh mulch.

And there's one I just started that I don't think I'll ever be able to finish. It's about love and how the sudden, involuntary twitching of his fingers made everything more important to hold. Sort of like when we picked strawberries, like Isabella Jetten.