An ultrasound snapshot, curled slick plastic paper, in the gutter on a sunny Saturday afternoon, dropped or discarded, who knows. Seeds fall in sidewalk cracks and root their meager, eager inch, not knowing how awful a landing they managed to stick. Some seeds carry the next generation. Maybe my greatest feat will be fatherhood. But what are the odds of prairie or forest? What are the goddamned odds of that? I’ve sold myself short, celebrating the sidewalk cracks and gutter seams.

A vintage shop, the owner an oft-washed kitchen towel, telling me he could make more money selling it online, the hi-fis and ceramic lamps and corduroy, but he didn’t want that, and it’s a blessing, his dusty shop. Dresses and dress shirts once worn by people, a tangible imprint of people, not just the imitation of them from screen lights. I do my best. We do our best. When I was young it seemed life was so wonderful, a miracle, it was beautiful, magical.