I spent the afternoon on the park bench at Hester Commune--now that the water is off for the season she doesn't seem to want to dash madly from zone to zone. I rested in a slim book of poetry and she only got stuck and needed rescuing once. I gazed, exhausted from a week of sickness and the emotional labor of weaning (I thought I'd be less tired because of it...) as she and the other kids play wordless games-- though words are being spoken--do they understand each other? Does my child understand Cantonese? Is it Cantonese? or is it Mandarin? I have no idea. I feel guilt for not knowing. I've lived here for four years and have no deep friendships across racial barriers. I also have no deep friendships within racial barriers but I feel like that is a flimsy argument. I find the language barrier peaceful. That's why Hester Commune is both our favorite park. There are always children to play with and fellow moms (and also grandparents, of both genders, which is so lovely... I want that to soak into Margot's psyche. And my own) to nod and smile broadly and laugh to and with and that is all. A deep mutual admiration of children playing together and no discussion of preschools or--I honestly don't know what people talk about. My meds have been so messed up I have not been able to claw my mind free for over a month. But to be honest, I don't think I've ever known that. I speak in cliches on playgrounds and to "peers" because I've never known. Maybe they do the same because of the same. Or maybe they're idiots, as my anxiety riddled body tells me.

Walking home along the street below the bridge, lined with produce stands and baskets of crabs and all of Chinatown buying both, I first think about the chaotic crowd of people who manage to nearly never run into each other. We are all very good at this. Who needs rules of traffic. Our skills surpass rules.

I see the butterfly. It hovers above a precipitous crate of lychee still on the branch or oranges, I can't remember, all I could think about was how huge it was. Do butterflies grow bigger over the course of summers? do they migrate? how long do they live? It's four inch (I have no idea) wings trembling with tentativity. Tremble is inaccurate because it suggests a lack of confidence (also hunger)... it tasted the atmosphere, languidly. Oh God, was it dying?? It wavered here and there, slowly, just above, I wavered in and out of the masses of shoppers, murmuring to bambi to look, look! She looked and looked at whatever she was gazing on before. It flew up and up. How could I still see it? is it even a butterfly? Maybe a bat? But they don't come out till dusk and it was solidly (liquid) golden hour.  No. I know a butterfly's flight. And I know a bat's. How are my eyes this good right now? It wavered unthinking into the car deck of the bridge. I strained for its reappearance. There! Then back again and out of sight. I realize shivers had travelled the course of my body and and buzzed, hovering on the top of my scalp. I scratch my hair roughly. I cross under the bridge, took a photo of the shock of orange sunlight on the corner kiosk. I cross the street, see a sparrow take off from a tree stunted by sound. Was it a sparrow all along?