The fog is thick here by the bay, and the air is heavy and warm. Dogs and their walkers traverse the sidewalks in slow contemplation . . . none of those brisk autumn trots today.
Today Tom and I will look at a house. Afterward I'll be washing piles of laundry, and baking some bread, and scrubbing the toilet and the floors, and listening to afternoon baseball. Meanwhile, the poem drafts I wrote in Aisha's workshop will rest in my notebook like sweet secrets.
Last night, over steamers and salad and lemon gelato, and I told Tom that maybe I'm feeling less homesick now. The moment was small point of happiness for both of us. And by small I mean important.