There are other surmised explanations for the rooster’s place on church steeples, but this account seems the most plausible to me.
There is something about watching people pick out spaghetti sauce, and knowing they will cook and eat a meal together, leave dirty dishes in a sink together, that makes me ache.
So much of poetry is naming things.
When I get a job, I will have a brand-new wardrobe to match my brand-new job. I’m not sure where all these new clothes will come from, but most likely Olivia Pope’s closet.
I know which cashier is the fastest, which one is the nicest, and which one packs my reusable grocery bags like her own personal Tetris championship.
My students rarely say “no,” however. They say “It’s difficult” or “I’m tired,” because from their perspective they are trying.
I didn’t know how to write about a rain jacket on Palm Sunday after forty-four people died in their churches.
When you start to recognize people and places, and you start to be recognized, you start to feel home. Re-cognize—from the Latin cognoscere, “to know.” To re-know, or to know again.
I have so many half-baked ideas rattling around in my brain, interesting websites bookmarked for inspiration, words and sentences hastily scrawled on Post-It Notes.
Mostly, I pace. While I pace, I think about what I’ll make for dinner. I think about the fact that I’ll have time to make dinner because we test again tomorrow so that means no lesson planning.