It’s grey and humid and pretending it’s going to rain. It’s been like this for weeks, although yesterday was glorious and cloud free, the first time I’ve seen the sun in what feels like forever. I walked around the salt pond and smelled seaweed drying, looked at the tracks of a deer in the sand, listened to the birds and the sound of traffic (scattered now, for a week longer, as memorial day creeps closer). It rained in the early morning a few days ago, before I woke up. The sound of the storm crept into my dreams, and when I woke up the linoleum floors in my bathroom and kitchen were wet with condensation. I bought peonies from the grocery store and they’ve exploded into froth. I have no vases so I keep them in a water jug on the counter. They look like a dutch painting, like they are sending out their own light in the drear.

Yesterday again I sat in the sun and shade in my front yard and the occasional breeze would bring the scent of the lilac bush in my neighbor’s yard. I’m always wondering how I’ll remember a period of time, what symbols and moments will stay with me, and I thought “Well: this one, then.” I had a chain of memories of spiders when I was younger — each time thinking “I’ll remember this spider like I remembered that one, and the one before it.” They’ve mostly faded but I do remember the spider in the back porch, the one in the odd covered hole that my dad used to store the gas for the lawn mower, a metal lid covering a small square of concrete in our yard. Anyway, what I’m saying is the smell of lilacs in the sun probably will stay with me, letting me forget the bookends of endless grey mornings.