Last night my son sent me a small essay he wrote about leaving Harmony, which he's going to transform into the script for a dance performance he's designing as his final for a choreography class. I cried, of course. He telephoned afterward, and we talked for a while, and then he started reading passages aloud from my book Tracing Paradise--passages he's planning to use as citations in a paper. As he pointed out, there aren't that many historians of Harmony around. He and I may be the only ones.

Anyway: to think that my own son will cite me in a college paper-- It's an odd feeling.

This morning I'll put in my last day of writing work with the ELL kids. And then I'll walk home in the rain. I'm feeling melancholy . . . not because of the weather--it's just another gust of homesickness and elegy. I think that sadness will never vanish.