it is midsummer and so I am verklempt over the tomatoes

when I am away from home too long, the first week back is always a little too restless. I never give myself quite enough time and energy for the labor that it takes to replenish the kitchen, refresh the laundry, remember the body.

care labor is endlessly circular — the to do list never checked off completely, the dishes piled up yet again, the detritus filling up too much and too little space. I buy organizers and bins, convinced they will change my life — and they do, for a little while.

I make ugly art, and I swim deep underwater, and I wash handfuls of peaked tomatoes, and I write furiously, and that does more, and perhaps nothing needs to change.