By Marilyn Chin
Why must I tell you this story, O little one
You’re just a bud-of-a-girl, who knows nothing
Now you are full-faced, bright as sun
Now you open your skirts pink, layered, brazen
Suffering is alchemy, change is God
Now you droop your head, heavy with rust
Sit, contemplate, what did Buddha say?
Old age, sickness, death, no one owns eternity
Detach, detach, look away from the sun
Let your petals fall aimlessly
Don’t despair, little one, we are done
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Monday was, unsurprisingly, a pretty quiet day. I had lunch plans with Kay, but we'd decided to be responsible and cancel even before the governor ordered all restaurants in Maryland to close except for takeout. Instead I had bagels at home with Paul and scanned a bunch of old photos when I wasn't writing or reading coronavirus memes; when he was done with his phone conferences, we went to Locust Grove to take a walk, where it was very easy to avoid being within many feet of other people.
We watched the first episode of The Plot Against America, which I liked but it's hard to get a real sense of how good the scarier parts will be from just the introduction, plus we caught up on last night's Supergirl (I appreciate the sentiment but it was pretty heavy-handed in its writing) and Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist (hitting every cliche Isn't It Romantic warned about) which we blew off to watch Westworld (definitely the right call). From Washingtonian Lake on Saturday, some more of the geese and goslings:
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