January 6, 2024:

"I found one with money in it!" Four or five years old, holds up a plastic easter egg, unopened. "Whaaaaa?", very pretty lady sings in very pretty lady voice. Half a mile later I'm still laughing.

"I hurt my thumb, when I was fighting him." Thirteen-ish, spotty, scraggly, physically and I think morally unattractive. "I think I caught it on his ribbon."

Grownups — grownups? — on electric bikes, doing laps around the park. I'm unsure if it's exercise or tourism.

January 5, 2024:

Strikingly tall. Six feet; dirty blonde; hair horns bound with red embroidery floss; fishnets; leather biker jacket. I try and fail not to steal glances.

She's visible over my friend's shoulder, seated near the fireplace outdoors at Stone. We're talking Frank Bardacke's book on farmworkers; she's on her phone, seemingly exasperated her date doesn't show.

My friend has cancer. I think about death, his and mine, while over his shoulder vibrant blonde life frowns with impatience.

January 4, 2024:

Crowds in the station.

Daypacks, water bottles. They came to march, now they're going home.

Up the coast: Del Mar, Encinitas, Cardiff, Carlsbad, Oceanside.

Good on 'em.