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My mother went to the hospital for a broken hip and stayed for Covid. She is currently in a state of delirium which, according to numerous websites, is not a precursor to dementia nor “a senior moment.” It could be a response to physical pain, a drastic change in environment, a new medication. It could be temporary. No one knows. 

She is talking about a group of well-dressed Mexican men. They are very well-dressed, Rebecca. 

The man in the royal blue scrubs asks me if I’m her daughter. Is she always like this?

No. 

She asks me for a top. A top to what, Mom? A top to wear, Rebecca. She rolls her eyes. 

She is slightly slumped over in bed, preoccupied with organizing an imaginary event. There’s so much to do. So many things to do. Twelve people are at her house and some of them are messy. What will I feed them, Rebecca? What do you want to feed them, Mom? Frankly I just wish they’d go away. They’re leaving soon, Mom. 

Her wrinkled bruised hands move gracefully through the air. Take this for me, she says, handing me nothing. Do you have it, she asks sharply? Yes, Mom. I’ve got it.

The goal is to get her home where people can visit her without filling out forms and getting their temperature taken. Maybe she can get her dog back. In the meantime, she is in a rehabilitation facility in a creaky bed with a view of City College of San Francisco. 

When my mom was a dean at City College, she often had days of back-to-back meetings with cranky administrators and stressed-out students. Once her secretary stabbed someone with a butter knife so she had to deal with that. There might have been a day when she finally got to close her office door to call me and tell me to preheat the oven because she was coming home. And maybe, as she put on her coat, she paused to look out the window. Maybe she could see where she is now.

“Are there any rich guys in the crowd who want to buy me shit?”

Popstar Kim Petras is talking to the audience between songs. She is wearing a black leather miniskirt and an off-the-shoulder gold top. The sunlight is reflecting off her long blond extensions and her white teeth are sparkling. Her backup dancers are dressed for a Sexy Mad Max party. She stomps across the stage and blows kisses to the tall person in the Lucille Ball wig in the front row who is pushed up against the metal railing. 

“It’s a really hard time in the world,” she adds. “Especially for trans girls.” The crowd hollers in solidarity. One tall man next to me in a maroon t-shirt wipes his eyes as Kim launches into her next song, Hillside Boys. I start jumping up and down to the beat. I quickly memorize the chorus, “Hillside Boys you call my name. You make my heart sparkle like champagne.” I pretend I’ve been listening to Kim Petras for years, when in fact I only learned of her a few days ago, in preparation for this weekend. 

I am at Outside Lands, an annual music festival in Golden Gate Park. I am forty-eight which means I paid extra for shade seating and access to upscale porta potties. I am wearing practical sneakers, sunscreen, and a neon fanny pack containing lip balm, Advil, and Band-Aids. Eighty-thousand people are here. There are various stages and dozens of vendors selling acai bowls and dried flower crowns. When I eat my Korean loaded waffle fries at a picnic table across from the Monster Energy Drink booth, I overhear a girl in crocheted pants say to her friend, “Matthew is the king of going to music festivals for the music.” 

Like Matthew, I go for the music. I also love the people-watching and the overhearing of comments like, “Oh my god your parasol is everything.” When Pussy Riot plays the Ukrainian national anthem, a dad with his toddler on his shoulders turns to me and says, “These girls are amazing.” He hadn’t heard of Pussy Riot until his Russian coworker suggested he “go pay tribute.”

Pussy Riot is amazing. Apparently so is Wet Leg, the band my husband is seeing on the other side of the park. He texts, this show is incredible. Thank god women can now lead bands. I know what he means. It is no longer unusual to see female-led acts, or in the case of Pussy Riot and Wet Leg, all female bands. I text him back, First bands, next the country.

Later, swaying back and forth during Mitzki’s set, I am transfixed. She sings about the strange discomfort happiness can bring when you are conditioned to constantly wait for bad things to happen. And her dancing is more like theater. At one point she death-stares the audience and then mimics slowly slicing her neck with the microphone. Between songs, I can hear Post Malone across the park screaming, “I fucking love San Francisco.” I whisper into my friend Sarah’s ear, “The patriarchy is always in the background.” 

Most women I know feel like we have a lot to be angry about. When Phoebe Bridgers leans into the mic and says, “The world is burning,” thousands of high-pitched “Yeahs” travel across the grassy field like an electric current. 

Kim Petras is right. It is a really hard time in the world. Music won’t save us. We will save us. And when we do, music will be blasting.

The Salesforce Tower is the tallest building in San Francisco. It wasn’t there when I moved away in 2015, but when I returned three years later, my city had gotten a mohawk. It’s visible from the beach, the park, the grocery store. 

Like a new loud family member, at first it was embarrassing, but over time, I’ve gotten used to it. It’s just who we are now. 

A month ago, I was downtown, ordering an iced coffee from a place with too many milk choices. Leaving the café, I looked up at the office buildings. I couldn’t see the Salesforce Tower. I walked a few blocks and kept searching for it. It had vanished. Then it occurred to me. The tower is not visible when you’re right next to it.  

I had forgotten about that until yesterday. My daughter and I took a long walk down a path surrounded by weeds and wildflowers. We talked a little, about boyfriends and pancakes, but were generally quiet. “Can we walk a little slower?” she said at one point. “It’s so pretty.” 

Our footsteps on the gravel sounded like popcorn crunching. We stopped to watch a brown bunny chew on a leaf. And then my daughter said, “Mom. Look. A fish.” At first, I thought the shimmering skin on the ground was the flesh of a bird but I was wrong. There were dead fish strewn on the path. Some whole with eyeballs intact, others in pieces. “My friend told me about this,” she said. “Anchovies fell from the sky.” She said this with the nonchalance of a teen who has lived through a global pandemic. 

“How the hell did anchovies fall from the sky?” 

She shrugged and said there was an article about it. I told her we should watch Magnolia later that night. We continued to walk in silence. Crunch, crunch. 

We were over a mile from the ocean. How did anchovies fall from the sky? I concocted various scenarios in my head, but was too ashamed to share them with my analytical child.

Later, at home, my daughter looked it up. “Overpopulation of anchovies,” she announced, sprawled out on the couch with her phone. “Sea birds tried to get them all to their young but carried too many, so they fell on the ground.” She took a sip of her banana smoothie.   

There was no mysterious fish tsunami. The explanation was perfectly logical. Birds were responsible for the fish on the ground. This had not occurred to me. I was ready to believe in fish clouds. Then I remembered the Salesforce Tower, the thing you can’t see when it’s right in front of you. And then I started thinking about what else I’m not seeing. The thing that later, when it reveals itself, will make me say, “Of course. How obvious.”

I love the sound of ski pants walking down a hallway. Swoosh, swoosh. People are up early and heading out the door. Sunscreen? Passes? Gloves? The door slams.

I skied yesterday but today I’m staying back at the rental house with my friend and her two tween daughters. I don’t know when the word tween started. I don’t like saying it but it’s certainly more concise than saying the girls are something like nine and twelve. The older one has excellent eye contact and loves to cook. The younger one wears stylish baggy jeans and doesn’t like a lot of things. 

Now, I am on the couch with a coffee and Ann Patchett’s new essay collection (“I don’t like nonfiction,” the younger girl had informed me). My friend is in the kitchen with the girls, making fried rice. I am overhearing them jump from topic to topic like bees collecting pollen. First, they review the order of ingredients. “First the oil and garlic, then the crunchies, then the softies.” An Ed Sheeran song is on, and the lyric is, “I will be loving you ‘til we’re 70.” The younger daughter wonders, “Until we’re 70? Then what?” My friend responds, “Then he’ll have a midlife crisis and an affair.” They add the crunchies.

Next up is animals. “Can people be charged for murder and go to jail for killing an animal?” My friend makes a thinking sound and finally says, “I’m not sure. There are animal protection laws but it’s not the same as killing a person.” The younger girl says, “True. Probably not as long. So, like a month?” The older girl says animals are better than humans and that statement hangs in the air along with the scent of garlic and onion. My friend breaks the silence, asking the older girl how many eggs to add.  

I like being around people who enjoy the company of their children. The warmth and respect my friend extends to her daughters makes the room feel cozy and safe. 

The four of us eventually go for a walk just as it begins to snow. The older one only agreed to the walk if we promised “good conversation.” The younger one lets us know she doesn’t like her jacket. We walk down to the lake and stare at the mountains for a while. We talk about the movie Encanto, best friends, and boys who can’t sit still.  

Later I will say to my husband about my friend. “She is such a good mom. She really listens to them and doesn’t try to change their opinions. It was really fun being with them today.” He will ask me if I shared this with her and I will say no, but I should. 

It began with a closed bakery.

The Liguria Bakery in San Francisco, founded in 1911, sells only focaccia. I learned about the place on social media, from a colleague who posted a photo of a delicious looking raisin bread. I miss a chummy workplace, where you learn this sort of thing leaning on someone’s desk after returning their stapler. But this isn’t a pandemic story. 

After swimming this morning, I drove to the bakery, hungry and excited. Just yesterday, my naturopath advised me to limit my white flour intake to reduce the risk of cancer recurrence. But I would limit my white flour intake another day because also yesterday, I had to put my kitten to sleep. 

Upon discovering the bakery was closed, I drove away frustrated. I nearly plowed into a Mini Cooper driven by a woman in a baseball cap who didn’t see the stop sign. It was raining just enough to warrant windshield wipers but not enough so they wouldn’t squeak. Sighing, I turned on the radio. Cyndi Lauper was on. Confusion is nothing new.

At the next intersection I spotted a market on the corner with a chalkboard sign promoting mushroom coffee. “You won’t believe it!” the sign read in cursive. The naturopath had also mentioned mushrooms. I could try the coffee, and maybe a muffin. I grabbed a tote bag from the trunk because we also needed a few groceries.

I didn’t see a basket, so I used my own bag to collect a few things. Milk for the kids, eggs, soy sauce, and coconut cream because it came in a pretty tin. By the time I approached the counter to order my mushroom coffee and muffin, I had forgotten about the items I was carrying over my shoulder. It was only after I returned to the car that I realized I had just stolen my groceries. I sat in the front seat, sipping my coffee, deciding what to do next.

I recalled the last time I stole something. Many years ago, a package was delivered to our house, and I opened it to find two cute t-shirts I didn’t order. When I flipped over the envelope, I saw it was addressed to a house up the street. I kept the shirts, even after a curious teenager showed up at our door asking politely for a package meant for her. I lied to a child. I only wore the shirts under sweaters because I was worried the teenager would see me. When my husband discovered my secret, he was disturbed by my excuse. “It’s too late. I opened the package so I’m keeping the shirts.” I assigned blame to a brown envelope and refused to accept responsibility. A shocking amount of time went by before I admitted I was wrong. My husband used to bring up Operation T-Shirt from time to time, until I instructed him that this was an Unmentionable that he should take to his grave.

“Excuse me,” I said to the man who had made my mushroom coffee. He was frothing milk and said loudly, “Hold on.” I waited, holding my tote bag. “Coffee ok?” He looked surprised to see me again. I nodded and said, “Surprisingly good actually.” Then, as I unloaded my bag onto the counter, I added, “I inadvertently stole these.” He hadn’t heard me because of the mask. “I stole these,” I said loudly. “I’m sorry.” The petite woman in the yoga pants waiting for her drink looked over at me. I suddenly felt self-conscious about the oversized flowered coat I wear after swimming. 

He finally understood. “You didn’t pay for these,” he said, wiping his hands on his apron. Yoga woman pulled out her phone. “Correct,” I said, putting my credit card on the counter. After the transaction, I put the items back in my bag, nodded at the woman, and scurried to my car. I removed my mask, took a sip of coffee, and looked in the rear-view mirror. My swim cap had left giant creases in my forehead.     

A close friend and I leave each other daily voice memos. Topics range from unwanted body hair to death and dying. Recently, on the couch in the dark, I listened to her describe her upcoming evening. There would be pasta, and cleaning, and possibly a shower. She was looking forward to spending time with her husband, who had been busy all day shopping for fertilizer and installing new smoke detectors. She yawned and said, “After dinner, we’re going to pop on a program.”

I paused her message and repeated the phrase. Pop on a program. How fun to say. The words felt like a sip of sparkling water. It is a delightfully nostalgic expression, from the era of video cassettes and DVDs. Program sounds even more old fashioned than show or movie. Pop on a program is perfect.

The next morning, floating on my back in the Bay, a flock of pelicans flew overhead. The clouds were moving fast, and the sky was streaked orange. I said it over and over. Pop on a program.

Driving home, I vowed to use the phrase in a story. Or maybe in the new book I’m writing. The husband could say, “Let’s pop on a program,” and the teenager would roll his eyes. At home, I wrote it down in my little brown notebook. 

That night, my husband and I watched an episode of Succession. Two minutes in, I realized I missed my chance to say, “Let’s pop on a program.” I sipped my tea loudly, regretfully. My husband will never know how clever I am.

If anyone had asked me what I did that day, I would say I went swimming, attended a work Zoom, and worked on a jigsaw puzzle with my daughters. I would not say I spent the day thinking about pop on a program. What did you think about today? 

Today I’m thinking about something I noticed when I lived in Perth. If you ask an American, “How was the movie?” they will say, “It was alright,” or “Bruce Willis is handsomer than I remembered.” If you ask an Australian the same question, they might respond, “Just over two hours,” or something describing the actual structure of the film. How means something slightly different there. If you ask me what I did today, I’ll tell you all about it.