I’m sitting out here on my terrace, high above the street. Four stories below, the backyards of ground-floor apartments form a mosaic, dotted with outdoor grills and brick-bordered gardens. A man across the street sits in a lawn chair, reading a book. I can hear a girl talking on the phone. The couple next door is outside watering their geraniums in the waning sunshine. A pair of fat bumblebees twirl lazily overhead. From the street, the scent of warm chocolate chip cookies wafts up on the breeze.

I'm sitting here with a big mug of steaming tea. As it steeped, I stood, leaning with my hip against the counter. I held the honey over the mug, letting the amber liquid stream in for a beat too long, and my tea is sweeter than usual. Opening the fridge, I discovered that I was out of both cream (!) and whole milk (!). Sighing as if to say why must I endure such cruel deprivation, I poured in equal parts skim and almond milk. Let it be said: This does not taste as good as cream.

I usually call my mother once a day. I mentioned that to a friend the other day and they looked at me like I had some serious issues going on. I just like to talk to her. She's funny and wise. She's interested and interesting. She has a rare ability to listen actively, quietly encouraging me turn things over in my mind, like I'm panning for gold, like my thoughts are a handful of sand from a stream bed and I'm sifting out the debris until a kernel of something true appears flat in my palm.