After the physicality and amped emotion of the parade, I was hanging my hat on a day of thunderstorms and stillness.
The storms didn’t arrive this Sunday, just a brief rain shower and heavy atmosphere—blue skies felt antithetical, humidity oppressive.
The weight of the moment returns.
Whatever gains have been made for queer folks hang suspended in the air as the rug of women’s rights are pulled underneath.
I tidied up the house, refolding an unfinished quilt mom had started.
It resonated in this moment, this amalgamation of fabric held loosely together, requiring more effort to finish the vision.
That’s where we are.