Saturday morning sunshine, and very welcome it is. I do love rain, but a break now and then is a refreshment. Finally I'll be able to hang out some clothes, put up the hammock again, catch up on grass mowing, and deal with that giant branch in the backyard. At some point this weekend Tom and I are planning to stake out a new garden bed in the backyard, and then I'll start moving my composted leaves into the marked-off plot, where they'll serve as an underlayer for new soil. I don't exactly know what shrubs I'm going to plant there: something with an upright growth habit, though, that can serve as a thin screen for my woodpile and compost corner without flopping over into paths or chairs.

Today is Paul's last day in Portland, so we're going to take part of the afternoon off, at his request, and go into town for craft beer and poutine. This time tomorrow, he'll be sitting in a bus, heading south, and we will be settling into Empty Nest, Round 2.

Strange times for us all.

I'm still sleeping badly--a little less badly than earlier in the week, but still with the sense of being specter of myself.

Yet tomorrow I'll have a room of my own again . . . a dusty room, greatly in need of a thorough cleaning. A small, bare room with hardly any furniture: just a standing table, a dining-room chair, some bookshelves filled with poetry. 

I don't quite know how to feel.