I have led my final class for the Frost Place. But the weekend went well, if you discount the fact that I was sick through the whole thing. And perhaps being sick is what's protecting me (and you) from the wallows of elegy this morning.

After a weekend on the the job, I have one day at home before I head north to teach high schoolers. Then home on Wednesday, and on Saturday T and I will drive to Mount Desert Island for a few days. These have become twice-yearly visits, and usually they are pure delight, but our friend Curtis died over the summer, so this will be a different sort of weekend . . . one spent helping out with repairs and weeding and whatever other support his wife needs from us--and mourning the loneliness of a world without Curtis. Still, we'll be waking up by the sea, in the sweetest cottage I know. It will be a hard weekend but also a rich one.

I do hope that this cold will have released me from its grip by then. I hope it will release me by tomorrow so that I can get through my next round of teaching without mishap. This is not a serious illness, but it's relentless, and it's wearing me out.

And today I have to edit; I have to grocery-shop; I have to fork myself back into my exercise regimen. There's no space in this week for a sick day, and I'm not even really that sick. Last night T and I walked around the corner for dinner out with our neighbor, and that was a really nice ending to the day. Fun can happen! I need to remind this cold that it's not the boss of me.

I meant to write to you this morning about the book I just finished, Scott Zesch's The Captured. Maybe I'll save that note for tomorrow because my thoughts need some space, and I've already used up a lot already. It's a book I highly recommend, one that surprised and captivated me in a number of ways. It's also a terrible, painful story. I look forward to telling you about it.