R. is nearing 22 months and alert for cars, trucks, construction vehicles. They’re good for learning colors, cars are. The beloved mail truck is not as impressive as Friday’s triple parade of garbage trucks (recycling, compost, junk), but brings more net happiness since it comes almost every day.
She is worried about some end-of-life mattresses that were dumped on the roadside up the hill, and stops our walks to point them out: “Dirty. Dirty beds. Garbage beds.” Her inflection is equal parts interest and distress, and I hope it’s not too long before some city agency decides to own the problem.
Our conversations bring up very old memories I didn’t know I still had. Tucson, circa 1982:
And when the traffic light is yellow?
That means go slow.
And when it’s blue?
That means the moon.
And when it’s purple?
That means the stars.