By August 12, 2014Loss

San Mateo Farmers’ Market. My Saturday ritual. Fish from Mission Seafood. Lettuce from Tomatero Growers. Almonds from Francesca.

I met Kelli, and we walked the aisles. We shared a bunch of fresh basil, roots intact. “If you put them in water, they will last a long time,” I told her. I stuck my nose in the middle of the leaves. The scent of past summers, when I grew my own basil and made fresh pesto.

I ran into Kathy, one of Ariela’s religious school teachers. Then, Gina, from my yoga class. And, Jim from around the block.

Other friends, a couple I hadn’t seen for a few weeks stopped to chat. They always ask about Ariela. They didn’t know, and I had to tell them. “In May,” I said. She wiped her eyes. He strained to speak. I kept my sunglasses on and blinked to clear my blurry vision. We stood for a while without speaking near the Half Moon Bay nursery.

I treated myself to sunflowers.

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