by Mia Aguilera
January 15, 2018
My brother Ian and I live in the Pacific Northwest. We have a small brick house with wooden floors and a wall of French windows, letting in plenty of light. The furnishings are sparse, with a semi-industrial feel. It’s late spring. I have started an herb garden, with plenty of basil because it’s our favorite. I go out in my sweaters and summer dresses and tend to my plants. Ian helps, lifting a large bag of garden soil with ease. I section off a portion of the garden bed so he can plant vegetables. In the morning we enjoy our breakfast with leisure. If I’m in the mood I make something especially tasty, like caramel banana French toast or an omelette packed with spinach, tomato, and mushrooms. Every Sunday we listen to Breakfast with the Beatles, hosted by Chris Carter. In the afternoons I read and write, and he plays his bass. He has grocery crates filled with vinyl records and I frown when he puts on Blood Sugar Sex Magik, but nod approvingly when it’s Stevie Wonder. In the evenings we cook dinner and watch a movie or go out and eat Thai or Indian food. I establish a No Drinking rule. I tell him to get drunk on something else. Espresso, the smell of wet greenery after the rain, fettuccine Alfredo, lilies, green tea lattes, incense. We live the life of artists, obsessed with creation and the clean, wet scent of the earth, full of renewal.