Running around the desert--cool breeze--swift steps uphill to "King of the World"--
a song I loved as a 17-year old Lucy in AZ.
Early morning crackers spread with Trader Joe's peanut butter and strawberries.
Mountains and hedgehog cacti.
Two roadrunners, quail, a jackrabbit on Easter morning.
My aunt, Maf, and I, aproned, bake a vegan shepherd's pie.
We drink pomegranate juice out of champagne glasses, and I clean my pastel bowl of carrot soup with a potato roll.
I love these people, and I believe in the power of family because here is my father's sister who lives in the North Woods and her best friend from childhood and the boy from down the block and me, and they're singing me an early happy birthday over a chocolate cake made with no animal products, sided with Soy Dream ice cream.
I head home with a saddlebag of leftovers.
It's a forty minute drive that seems much too short for the vacation I'm returning from, for the finals prep I am returning to.
I curl up on the couch and watch Don and Peggy and Joanie while my roommates study and their significant others bake Lent-Is-Over-Cookies and paint a sailboat on an ocean.
I was in a saltwater hot tub this afternoon.
The show ends, and I head to my bedroom.
I pull out this infernal writing machine. I unpack a little.
The smell of my damp swimsuit in a grocery bag.
It reminds me of being called Lucy
when that was my only name.
And I think we could all use a resurrection sometimes.
Happy Easter.
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