“Have you traveled to China recently?”
No. I’ve been home, sleeping and battling morning sickness, except it’s at its worst in the evening, the way it was when my mom was pregnant with me. She’s sure the baby is a girl.
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W. Atlee Burpee & Company says it’s sold more seed in 2020 than any other time in its 144-year history. A month into seclusion, a Honey Gold potato in a basket on my kitchen counter began to sprout. The eyes grew thick, leafy lashes. What to do? There’s little room in my diminutive yard to cultivate any type of vegetation.
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It’s day thirteen of my Coronavirus quarantine, I got up at eleven, drank two mug fulls of espresso, and I’m sitting in my childhood room in Montecchio, Italy, writing in a little black notebook, blank except for a handful of pages. The notes are a few years old and they are all about him—they are embarrassingly titled “My You”—but most importantly they are about her, the girl who was me, the girl who didn’t think she would survive heartbreak, humiliation and abandonment.
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