there is this rolling. right under the surface. imperceptible most of the time. except for when the two thirds of my body that is composed of water connects with the grumble of the earth's stomach and i read that there is a 99 percent chance that there will be yet another catastrophic earthquake in southern california and i wonder where i will be standing when that happens and where will the pieces of my heart that i have given to others end up?
finn put her shoes on by herself this morning. i was curled on the couch, early, trying to convince her that sunday morning cartoons wrapped in pajamas and morning teeth was the way to go.
no, mommy. we go outside.
her little hands, such tiny fingers, grasping mine.
come on, mommy. it is music, her voice. the lilt of learned inflections and new sounds jumbled like river rocks, washed and polished and mottled. it is music and i cannot ever be sure you hear the slight bass behind the drumming. but i hear it.
a leaf fell into wet concrete. some time before i lived in this neighborhood. it was here. and its memory, nature's handprint, stops me in my tracks and i think of falling buildings and cracked foundations and the idea that perhaps one day this photo will be all that remains.
finn breaks up a leaf as i'm taking pictures and places the pieces down with intent, my coffee sweating on the ground, the rogue band of filmmakers across the way quickly shooting scenes as people walk their dogs around them, into the street.
dinosaur prints, she says.
i look at her.
look, mommy, dinosaur prints.
then she starts singing 'it's a small world.'
she saw dinosaurs at disneyland. last weekend. the lead actor across the street is dressed in an ostentatiously cliched orange pimp suit, faux fur purple hat and wielding a cane. the "homeless man" with the unfortunate wig and bad makeup is drinking starbucks and smoking a cigarette. he forgot to take off his fancy watch. i wonder if the director noticed the watch or if maybe it was intentional.
i look back at the leaf print in the concrete and think that never again will this band of people, this 30 something woman with tattoos and a slightly ridiculous addiction to baked goods with her dangerously observant toddler and these people shooting what is (most likely) a short film that will never see more eyeballs than six degrees of separation will allow....this band of 'we, the people' will never, ever, stand in the same place again.
and i will remember today.
i will remember burbank in june.
earthquakes and dinosaurs and pimps. the slight bass behind the drumming. and baby deer.