Yesterday all three of us were home for dinner, so I roasted a chicken, mashed a pot of Yukon Golds, made mushroom gravy and a big tomato salad, and churned vanilla ice cream for root beer floats. Given that I was frenetic all day about work, chores, the election, et al., I don't exactly know why I decided to produce such a giant meal. But by that point my high-strungness had dissipated. An hour's talk with Teresa about Blake helped a lot. So did a long walk with Tom. I feel as if every single day I need to take myself in hand: figure out a way to live. When I first moved to Portland from Harmony, I did the same thing. But then I was fighting depression; now I'm fighting dread.

Anyway: another day, another battle. It's cold this morning, 47 degrees. Over the weekend I filled the woodbox and the kindling basket, dusted off the fire tools and brought them up from the basement. So everything is ready for the first fire of the season. Last night the house was warm enough, what with the chicken-roasting oven cranking for hours. But maybe tonight will be the night I give in to coziness.

Probably I'll cook down some tomatoes into sauce today. I've also got chicken bones to boil into stock, so I might as well fill the stove with giant pots. They can sit there simmering while I'm chipping away at my editing work. The grass needs to be mowed. The endless garden watering continues. I should make an appointment for a flu shot. Maybe I'll look at that poem draft I started on Saturday.

September 15, 2020. In a few weeks I'll turn 56. By then the leaves will be glowing on the trees. Time is a strange companion. Like a corgi puppy tugging at a leash. Like a mosquito on the wall, digesting the blood it just stole from me. Like a word I don't understand.