Reading the anxiety away. Trying to, anyway. Getting lost in someone else’s fictional shenanigans is weirdly satisfying. I just finished The Vegetarian, and whatever shortcomings I feel are present in my (comfortable) life, at the very least, its not that. Next, I want to read The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead, because historical fiction is my jam, and word is it’s an amazing read. Apparently everyone else in my city heard this too — the wait list for the book at my library is more than seventy people deep. My first instinct was to be annoyed at this, but then I thought it was kind of wonderful that other people were interested in reading it too.
This weekend we piled everyone in the car, including the dog, and drove south to Sarasota, to see Grandma, Pepaw, and the gulf. Seth and I snuck away for a date to the Selby Botanical Gardens, which were excellent and merit a second visit. The kids spent most of the time at the pool, where any trace of Foos’ paternal wasp roots were overcome by a conspiracy between the sun and her mother’s caribbean melanin. I loved it. We took a backwoods way back home, which made me nervous. For reasons I cannot explain, I feel ill at ease in America’s open spaces. The barns and depressed towns don’t conjure up any feeling of nostalgia or even beauty, only of mild panic and fear. Seeing a Trump sign for the first time displayed proudly on somebody’s lawn, didn’t make it any better. It may as well have said “I hate gays, women, and people of color.” But we made it back to our nest safely, and I’m sure the only memories which will remain of the visit are of family and love.