I spent much of yesterday reading, but I did also mow grass and wash sweaters and do some grocery shopping and plant a flat of bok choy. Today, however, my brief holiday ends, and I'll be going back to work on Frost Place curriculum and such.

We're entering a stretch of hot weather, and everything is so dry. I have been watering and watering, and longing for rain. So far the Alcott House farm is hanging onto life, but I've had to be vigilant. I suppose, in a way, it's a good thing that I can't go anywhere, because my garden would surely die while I was gone.

Last evening, as Tom and I were sitting at the little table in the Lane, playing cribbage against a scrim of tall garlic, I couldn't stop thinking about how odd it is: that I live here, that we live together, that we have raised a family, that we have done work. I guess it was a Talking Heads moment: "This is not my beautiful house. This is not my beautiful wife." And then: "How did I get here?"

Time is a folded tablecloth. Time is a burr in a dog's coat. Time is a tear in a lettuce leaf. Time is a painting of air.