Late February. First clumsy kiss of early spring: clean breeze; coats unbuttoned; in my sunny front garden, a few spikes of scilla and hyacinth; in the shady back garden, the hellebore--the Lenten rose--rising from under the snow crust, heavy with flower buds.

Inside, puddles of sun on the scarred floors. A cluster of tulips in a stone jar. The scent of coffee. Library books piled on the table.

My thoughts scatter here and there . . . my faraway sons; an unpleasant dream about having lunch with Melania T. and a sleazy costume designer; poems; the manuscripts of friends; starry-eyed plans for gardens and walkways. I am missing the dear Makioka sisters, whose novel has ended.

Falling in love with characters in books: may I do it till I die.