January 2020 in one-liners

2020 Daily Sentence – the first 31 days of a New Years Resolution

Jan 1 – I heard the shout, crouched beside a seedling with my loppers, and looked up to see everyone scrambling out of the way, the orange Monarch rumbling backward down the hill through the trees, a wobbling ton of crushing steel that finally met a tree it couldn’t conquer and shuddered to a stop.

Jan 2 – When Molly sounded the alarm, I was both concerned and proud that she had reached out to us after Emily was admitted with a lingering infection after her appendectomy.

Jan 3 – Overhand, underhand, I wound the tattered swap shop garland off our moldy porch lights, untied Spot’s holiday bow, and declared Christmas over.

Jan 4 – Only a faint hum lingered inside the house, a reminder of the all-night hissing refrigerator and its roaring companion, our tireless heat pump.

Jan 5 – Each photo — here the way Evie cranes her neck to look over her shoulder, here one of Stuart cocooned under my granny square on a chilly afternoon on the front porch after telling us he sold the contentious house to our evil neighbors, here one of what I did to Debbee’s imperial pumpkin custard recipe using Seminole pumpkins that I grew — eventually finds its place in our monthly online narrative.

Jan 6 – With a satisfying “whump,” I dropped a sizeable rail in place and straightened to see Giovanna, sun-dappled and staring at a large dead cedar leaning against an oak.

Jan 7 – She came to me through the woods, not as tall or exuberant as that first time years ago, and I greeted her with the reverence she deserved, crouching low to stroke her wide shoulders, letting her sniff my breath of noodles and cream, before straightening to throw a stick — not too far — a nice round piece of a bough that would fit her mouth.

Jan 8 – We press our lips together at the door, a movement well-rehearsed, and I return to my seat in the sun to watch for the car, a flash of blue turning left towards the airport.

Jan 9 – In front of my laptop, three seed catalogs, a garden map, and three order sheets, I pulled up the browser, created accounts, and filled shopping carts with the promise of good eating in 2020.

Jan 10 – It was just cold enough that my nose refused to stop bleeding while Susan pretended not to notice.

Jan 11 – Slipping the wooden step ladder onto my left forearm, I wore it to the next tree like the Queen’s hand bag, working my way up our property line with a bag of cotton strips torn from an old, blue sheet.

Jan 12 – Renewed beneath a grizzly beard, Jim showed us his room of bright windows, with the red and blue walls, hardwood floor, and his college drafting table.

Jan 13 – Shelly was sure I’d been given her plate by mistake, Amy shrugged — neither able to conjure the image of a Chili Relleno — but the crew-cut waiter assured me the mound of vegetables with the white sour cream drizzle was what I had ordered.

Jan 14 – Having averted my gaze, I slunk back into the hallway outside the senior center locker room and stared at the patterns in the rubber mat beneath my new, tightly-laced walking shoes.

Jan 15 – Her pupils, flat discs which caught no light, shot their dark beam across my midriff, addressing Shelley as we walked — an indication that we might not become friends.

Jan 16 – On January 15, I went out on a limb, betting a handful of seed against the hard freeze of a typical southern winter.

Jan 17 – The beagle looked concerned about something in the woods behind us, and after Shaine’s stories about rabid raccoons and non-hibernating bears, I also began straining at my tether.

Jan 18 – When I asked my mother if she had given thought, in her 50’s, to who, if any of her children, might take her into their care should she ever need it, she said, “I just kind of hang loose with Jesus. I let God decide what to do with me, and I just mosey along.”

Jan 19 – When I got to the line, we set down the dead tree, Bob looking behind himself to see the pin and me, too, then, nudging my end a little to the left, I pulled my hat down over my ears and smiled.

Jan 20 – Sunlight shone off the gulls, the sky above the river below the tailrace full of swooping, squealing action.

Jan 21 – Fat-breasted Robins wrestle worms from the pea-green moss beneath our bare-limbed crepe myrtle on a day so cold I’m pinned behind a cracked window, while their call to action—as urgent as the spin of tanker tires and lumber loads—fails to lure me outside.

Jan 22 – Reading in bed another inescapably brilliant short story, I’m delighted, inspired, and discouraged.

Jan 23 – I could see how badly they wanted this, their sprouts eager and blushing, as I pushed the bulbs into their soft, new bed.

Jan 24 – Listening to the blended hiss of water and vent air I imagine the feel of razor on skin, the hot water running down my back, soap dripping, eyes shut, and dutifully peel off my clothes.

Jan 25 – I swivel the roller dial and listen for a few minutes, inexplicably comforted by the voices coming through the plastic grid of my new thrift store radio clock.

Jan 26 – We closed our eyes as instructed, one hundred of us, and I felt myself expanding, rising, filling the cavernous barn with each heartbeat, boundaries forgotten.

Jan 27 – The documents in their clear plastic case have the aroma of stale ice cubes, and I wonder what the kids will smell when they open our frozen last wills and testaments.

Jan 28 – Listening for a change in the engine, I hear only the artificial white noise designed to alert pedestrians of our approach.

Jan 29 – I opened the window and leaned towards the screen, gasping, and reached back to stir the chipotles crisping in our cast iron pan.

Jan 30 – The bitter beans simmered but did not burst while trucks roared up and down the hill to the stump dump.

The feeling of time slipping past, the winter of repose evaporating to leave a solid residue of hard work that could have been avoided had I only applied myself mildly during these cold, sunny days, made panic rise like phlegm in my chest.

Jan 31 – He sighed and leaned aside as if to spit, then adjusted his keyboard and plugged back into the nightmare on those giant dual screens.