Claire's personal diary
I’m Claire Bennett. I’m thirty-six, I live in Brooklyn, and I started writing here because ordinary days disappear faster than I expect them to.
I woke up before my alarm and stayed by the window with coffee. The block was still half asleep. Someone rolled up the gate at the bodega, a delivery bike went past, and Mrs. Alvarez across the street watered the plant on her fire escape.
I usually treat mornings like a hallway I have to hurry through. Today I sat still long enough to notice one. Nothing important happened, which may be why I want to remember it.
The rain stopped just as I left the train. Every light on Seventh Avenue had doubled itself on the pavement.
I passed the little plant shop I always notice and never enter. Tonight I went in and bought a small pothos for the kitchen shelf. It felt good to bring home something living.
Mom mailed me the recipe for her apple cake, written on the same blue index cards she has used since I was a kid. She added “do not overmix” twice and underlined the second one.
I called her while the cake was in the oven. We talked about nothing for forty minutes—the neighbor’s dog, my brother’s new glasses, whether I own a proper winter coat. The cake sank in the middle. I ate a warm piece anyway.
I took my book to the park and left my phone in my bag. I read twelve pages, watched three dogs chase the same tennis ball, and bought coffee that was not very good.
For one whole hour, nobody needed an answer from me. I had forgotten how restful that can be.
The shelf had been leaning against the wall for six months. Tonight I borrowed a drill from Nate upstairs and put it up by myself. It is slightly crooked.
I placed five books on it, then the photograph of Dad laughing at Coney Island. The apartment looked a little more like mine afterward.
— Claire
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