Such a week this has been! First, my dog dies. Now, suddenly, we seem to be on the cusp of selling our house. Of course there is many a slip between lip and cup [a fine old idiom, especially pertinent to anyone who has tried to teach a calf to drink out of a bucket] . . . which is to say I am preparing for disappointment. But for the moment I am basking in the memory of watching two bright sweet young people fall in love with my trees. To this point, I have not allowed myself to believe that I could leave this place with peace in my heart. But maybe I will.

Tom and I both slept badly last night, I suppose because we're both keyed up. It has been a complicated week for him too, not least because he couldn't be around to say goodbye to Anna. I think that hurt him, to not have any moment of farewell. And now the two of us are shifting into the intensity of passing on the only home we have ever owned.

Yesterday evening we sat in the gloaming by the fire pit, toasting marshmallows that we didn't really want to eat, watching our tree shadows. Sometimes I feel like the Lorax, the way I go on about my trees. Other times I feel like Thoreau. If you could see them, maybe you would know what I mean.