I forgot what I was going to say. Let me start over:

This morning, my co-worker stepped off the bus and onto the curb. At the same moment, elastic let go and her pants fell to her ankles. The bus driver, seeing this, said, “Have a good day, ma’am.”

Our lives are short. I try not to wish away time I’ll never get back or remember when I last got my car inspected. This weekend: it’s blackberries or bust and no second chances. There is still time for golden beets.

I meant to say those things. And these, too:

Imagine the grandest salad. Statistically speaking, there will always be one more pistachio.

Do you remember when cicada song and cooling sweat at the nape of your neck signified a new day and your own endless possibility?