Tom arrived home last night just before 7, and I fed him and made him go to sleep early, with hopes that he'll stagger through his work day without too much trouble. Brooklynitis is a debilitating condition for those of us who aren't accustomed to staying up all night.
This morning I need to remember to bring my car to the garage for an inspection, and then I've got various smallish projects to keep me busy while I'm waiting for my next batch of editing to show up: writing, class planning, house and yard stuff, reading the Iliad, mentoring a friend's poetry manuscript . . . I think the electrician is supposed to show up sometime this week, to give us an estimate about our giant job, and I need to start moving the woodpile into the basement to make room for the green load that's supposed to get dumped in our driveway next week. All of a sudden I'm feeling the pressures of autumn: time to pull in and close down.
But yesterday was still summery. I spent the afternoon sitting in my neighbor's leafy backyard, visiting with her friends, eating a grilled feast and drinking sangria as blue sky blinked among the tree branches and Ruckus perched on her recycling bin and howled because there was a dog at the party. Oy, those Siamese-cat lungs.