I wish I met my uncle Niels. We have the same birthday. May 23rd.

My uncle Niels was four years older than my dad. He was born in 1933 when birthdays of boys with blond hair and blue eyes like his were celebrated in Germany more than others.

My grandparents started a photo album on his birthday. "For our crown prince Niels," it says in handwritten Art Deco letters on the first page. "A document of his life, his travels, and his big adventures."

My uncle Niels was the first of three siblings. Five years after my dad, my aunt Swantje arrived. All of them had pearly skin, were blond and had blue eyes. My uncle Niels was the only one with a straight nose and straight short hair. They combed it Hitler-style across his head. In pictures, he wears short lederhosen, my dad sailor suits, and my aunt white dresses.

The pictures from his first two years show my uncle Niels looking curious at the photographer and the world around him, mostly wide beaches and happy-looking people posing in old-fashioned swimsuits. Later, there is a sense of distrust in his piercing eyes.

"You like this grass?" I ask my eleven-month-old puppy.

Esty is rolling in the dark green blades, she switches back and forth from her white belly onto her brown-and-white marbled back. Her black snout digs into the dirt.

"Wait a second. Is there something stinky?" I pull the leash

"Don't worry," Esty says. "This is wonderful grass. Wet, juicy, morning grass. You should try it."

"Try what?"

"Smell it. Roll in it. Play with it. Feels good. Smells delicious."

I pull the leash again. I see no poop, no mount of dirt. Just grass. Green grass.

"What's your problem?" Esty asks "Don't be so prissy-sissy!"

Is the sun brighter? The air lighter? The sky wider?

A blanket I did not know I carried was lifted.

The first tears roll down my cheek when a woman in uniform pledges allegiance to this country not only in words but in sign language.

I watch in awe the young poet, fierce, in a yellow coat and red headband, her hands punctuating every line like birds in the winter air.

Her words and voice pierce through my heart, they sever and slash, soothe and caress, whip me awake.

Tell me to take

responsibility and help make

this world whole and united.

Remember her name

not just her fame

or her performing

It is Amanda Gorman.

She makes me want to be better, choose my clothes more wisely and my words, comb my hair with

{http://soundcloud.com/soundslikerstin/so-we-pretend-a-poem}

I have a hard time these days putting into words what I see, hear, feel and think. Some days I am busy with radio work. Some days I go on walks with our puppy. Some days I can't stop crying while I watch a stupid movie with a talking dog.

Labor day weekend, a weekend of record heat and smoke-filled skies from fires in Southern California, I sat in Los Angeles' Marina looking out on the water with a cold drink next to me. Suddenly I thought: "How can we pretend that everything's ok?"

Later at home, I wrote this poem:

May 25, 2020. Memorial Day. 6 PM in Los Angeles. We decide to prepare the tenderloin, sweet potatoes and brussels sprouts first, go to the beach for sunset, have a dinner and movie night at home. I start peeling potatoes while my husband marinates meat for the grill.

2000 miles northeast it's 8 PM. The sun has set. There is still a glow of light. The air is warm. An employee of the Cup Foods store, corner of 38th street and Chicago Avenue in Minneapolis, Missouri calls the police. A man, he says, used a fake 20 dollar note to buy a pack of cigarettes. Eight minutes later a squad car arrives. 

6:20 PM Los Angeles. While I pour olive oil over the veggies, add fresh rosemary and lemon juice, 17 year old Darnella Frazier pushes the video button on her smartphone.