I spent yesterday painting in the kitchen, then scouring counters, cleaning out cupboards, weeding out unnecessary stuff, piling it in the Goodwill basket. Midafternoon, the dog and I went for a walk on the icy trail and puzzled over what I think might be bobcat scat. Tom worked on the stereo cabinet he's building for the living room. We ate steamed mussels and potato-rice salad for dinner. I slept hard all night and dreamed of other people's children.
I spent yesterday editing back-cover copy for The Vagabond's Bookshelf. I read a passage from the Aeneid and stared at the dark pink blossoms of the begonia blooming at the window.
I spent yesterday laughing with Tom: over the relentless optimism of the Village People, over the cat slithering into a roll of paper and then punching his paw through it.
I spent yesterday thinking about the sadness of time, about loneliness, about neglect and anger, about the horrors of the Republican presidential candidates, about unwritten, unreadable poems, about dismay and disgust, about sweetness.
I spent yesterday sitting in a yellow chair in a blue room in a patch of sunlight in Maine in early March in the young millennium in peace in worry in love.