10 April 2007. Tuesday morning, Moeser pool, Emory's gnarled hand through small window, how ARE you...since sometime in the winter a year back, cold mornings, before dawn, black sky with misty moon. Today, hint of sun over eastern hills. Visit with Jane, each year at this time. Dad's salad bowl, turned wood from top shelf. Peter's guacamole--just green onions and fresh jalapeño. Sense of smell, the most atavistic...carries us back, zeroing in on some until-then-unremembered moment--kitchen on Fowles Street, for instance, the same bowl at end of counter, my father the produce man, holding cucumber or radish in one hand, a paring knife in the other, adding them in, his particular patience--an enjoyment of the moment, the ongoingness, humming under his breath--I'd try to catch the tune--or did I try? Maybe it just became a part of me...
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