Our evening streetwalk in Saratoga Springs was easy to write about because it went so well. We got dropped off by the shuttle bus, walked down the wide street on one side, and back up the other. We got back just in time to catch the last shuttle to our parking lot. And the whole thing was really, really fun.
The Troy Stroll was different.
The Serpent King, by Jeff Zentner, is the second book I read for the YA Book Club I joined at my library. (The last book I read for the book club was The Cruel Prince, by Holly Black).
I started The Serpent King at a tender time. I was spending a second weekend at the bedside of my grandmother, who was dying. Many of my most vivid memories of my time spent at her home were from my teenage years, when my friendships with my cousins were one of the most important things in my life and the summer visits, full of new experiences, were larger than life.
The house itself is full of senior photos of the cousins and grandkids, all of us gathered on shelves and side tables, frozen in time as 17 and 18-year-olds, and the home’s interior has barely changed over the course of the time I visited there from childhood until I was an adult.
Back when I was on Facebook, I participated in an internet pyramid scheme where participants each sent a used copy of their favorite book to the person at the top of the list. Just like the chain letters of old, your name would keep getting bumped up the list as more people were invited to join in. When you reached the top of the list, you would get books in the mail from the other participants.
I hope the others who signed up did as well as I did. I received 7-10 books out of the deal. I was sent classics, nonfiction, and books I’d never heard of. I received a historical fiction novel I’d already read and loved. I am still working my way through the stash.
One of them migrated over to the Chaplain’s reading pile early on and I forgot about it. It floated to the top of his pile and I caught sight of it and asked him about it, not remembering where it came from. “Oh, I borrowed that from you,” he told me. I took it back and started reading.
It was late in the day and I had just given myself permission not to do an evening meditation when Three knocked at my door.
She asked if we could do a meditation together.
This past spring, I posted about our forlorn backyard. The space was characterized by packed dirt and scattered scrap metal. It was well into spring, I thought. I was sure that was as good as it got.
