The black morning air is cold and thick. Snow is on the way.

Last night we escorted our visitors down Forest Avenue for their first-ever taste of Vietnamese pho, which they loved. We played cards, and kvetched about this and that, and in general behaved like regular cheerful relatives. We drank tea and went to bed early.

But now I'm tired, for no particular reason, and a little downhearted, also for no particular reason. I suppose it's just late-winter malaise . . . Spring is so close yet so far. I'd like to be immersed in a writing project, but I can't seem to fall down the rabbit hole. Not one single review of Chestnut Ridge has been published. I'm awaiting a passel of manuscript rejections . . .

Ugh. Enough! Let's talk about the tulips sitting on my living room table--they're lavender, with narrow white edging, still tightly furled, like short fat umbrellas. And The Makioka Sisters: this is a wonderful novel: ambling and slow, an idle walk among blossoms, with the sisters glowing like bright lamps at dusk.