To Grace at 23

You are an artist living near your brother in Bushwick

You are a hipster in Portland Oregon.

You went to RISD. You went to Reed. You went to Oberlin.

You are six feet tall, as the pediatrician predicted.

You are fearless.

You and your brother are still best friends.

You speak Mandarin.

You are funny.

Your hair is long, or pink, or shaved.

You still wear glasses, maybe like John Lennon.

You love the Beatles. Still.

Maybe you draw pictures for The New Yorker. You love Charles Addams and I bet by now also Roz Chast.

You are so smart. You are so ironic. You are 23. You are 23. You are 23. 

Autumn

I can’t believe I have not written here since May. Yet in some ways I can believe it. As you know, my mom died last year. But you probably don’t know how paralyzed by grief I’ve been. I’m writing at a glacial pace. My energy level is about as low as it can be. Everything is taking so much more time than usual. Yet I also know that grief is exhausting. It’s time consuming. It reeks havoc with you. And so, here I am. Undone.

Still, I’ve had such a wonderful summer. And my life is pretty darn good. I just am grieving hard. Giving myself time for that.

Summer. A trip to Northern California where my wonderful husband is working on the new French Laundry Cookbook. Which means I had the opportunity to eat at The French Laundry, for a meal and a night I will never forget. Champagne outside under that Northern California sky. Romantic dinner with astounding food and wine. That just began a trip that was practically perfect in every way: staying in a lodge in Big Sur, playing Yahtzee with Annabelle and her pal; hiking there the next day; visiting my old roomie in Santa Barbara where we had an unforgettable Fourth of July; dinner with my dear buddy Matt in LA...what a way to kick off summer.

And what a way to end it—five weeks in Europe with the people I love most (Sam, Annabelle, Michael...added bonus of GJ for a week and darling Katherine!), eating and drinking and card playing our way through Ireland, France and Italy. A dream trip.

And knitting and reading too. Socks (that’s the knitting) for the first time in ten years. I forgot how much fun they are! I have an autumn (and winter) worth of projects lined up—mitts and more docks and cashmere cowls and a skirt and...)

Have you read Barbara Trapido? Four books that had me charmed all summer. The new Kate Atkinson. WE WERE LIARS. Caz Frear’s British procedurals. A PLACE FOR US. PICTURES AT A REVOLUTION. ASK AGAIN, YES. Every one of them a must must read.

Today is officially the first day of fall. I’ve put my self on a familiar schedule. Write two hours. Read two hours. Knit two hours. This schedule works for me. Slowly, slowly. Grief abates. It doesn’t leave. It shouldn’t, should it?

Here’s to autumn. Today I saw red and yellow leaves here and there.