I’m sitting in the backyard in one of two freshly trash-picked rocking chairs. I bought my ticket for the neighborhood birds’ daily free jazz concert. I slept poorly, but I should find some relief drinking a cappuccino, eating oatmeal with cinnamon and banana, and listening to the forest. If I keep my laptop from sliding off my pajama pants and into the lawn, I’ll call that a win, too.
My dad would’ve only been about fifteen or so, but somehow he had the foresight to record the family jam sessions that would take place every Sunday at Great-Grandma Iva's house in Rahway. Gospel songs, country songs, jokes, somebody flushing a toilet, a long-gone dog catching a ball.