Having my sister here for my birthday was such a treat. She's got a house full of teenagers, juggles multiple jobs, and almost never gets the chance to escape anywhere alone, so seeing her was special. And then there's that guy I married, who made omelets for breakfast and steak for dinner, and washed all of the dishes, and bought me a set of beautiful noodle bowls, and was charming and affectionate and funny all day long. My cup runneth over. Being old is lovely.

Today I'll be prepping for tomorrow's workshop with seventh graders, and editing a manuscript, and, I hope, going to a yoga class if my foot can bear it. For dinner I'm planning to make black bean soup with roasted green tomatoes, and, if I remain enthusiastic, dinner rolls flavored with winter squash puree. I've got a poem collaboration project I want to start working on with a friend; I've got revision ideas for a poem in progress; I need to catch up on my Richard III reading.

But I'm still basking in the sweetness of the weekend. Love is a magical thing. And the knowledge of being loved is strangely humbling.