I'm just mad about saffron

It’s a cold February afternoon, perfectly gray and quiet. I put my long heavy coat on over my sweats and head to the park with Cheyenne.



I think of Augusta and dial her familiar voice. On my end of the call I walk through the cold air and on hers, she relishes the free time to talk provided by both daughters taking naps. She’ll be here in two weeks. Our conversation tumbles round and round, from all the dinner plans to remembering when.

She tells me, we have to drive by the crack house.

We gave it that name the day we moved into the house that leaned and had enormous cracks in the living room walls. The house that had a rusted chandelier held to the ceiling by a bent spoon, and shingles on the interior walls of the kitchen. The ugliest house I'd ever seen much less lived in but she was determined when she found it and somehow convinced me to move in with her, so we could save money. I have no idea what we did with all that money we were saving.

The cold air is on my cheek, dreamy, alive. I take in the grey sky through the veiny bare branches of the trees. Peaceful and still. The park is empty, save for Cheyenne, me and this conversation.

I can’t believe we used to live there, can’t believe it’s still standing.

I tell her I can't believe it hasn't been condemned.

She laughs, says, remember when your mom came over and asked if the floor was slanting or if it was her martini getting to her?

We go back and forth, sharing, remembering, laughing. I tell her I’m craving an Orange Fanta and have no idea why.

She says, Orange Fanta, I haven't heard that in so long. That reminds me of the coke machine at the barn. It had Orange Fanta in it, and Tab and Mellow Yellow.

She teases me for not being able to remember the machine; I tease her for being able to recall the offerings. We fall into our memories of the barn, the afternoons spent sitting on the feed bin listening to music from the clock radio on the shelf beside the phone in the tackroom while waiting for our parents to pick us up, or running from the boys who would chase us with mice they'd catch, and all the desperate schoolgirl crushes on the polo players.

I put my hands in my pockets against the cold, holding the phone on my shoulder, leaning into the comfort of her voice. I think how good it feels to still be here laughing with her. For the moment, on this Texas-to-Vermont line, there's not a care in the world. For the moment, we're back on the feedbin on a warm afternoon, running grain through our hands and talking about school, boys, horses.

She sighs, says, I used to love Mellow Yellow.