I slept until 6:30--such a treat after so many truncated nights. Kindly, my brain decided to skip the 3 a.m. roll call--"Don't forget everything you have to do today"--and let me blink awake peacefully: dear slumberer by my side, first light gentle as a baby's gurgle, and the cat yawning without grievance.

I do have many things to do today, but yesterday was such a social bustle that I am glad to be doing none of them yet. Afternoon and evening were crammed with visitors, barbecue, hilarity, and now the beds are filled with sleepers, including J's oldest childhood friend, who drove hours through the snow to get here. Of course my heart is packed tight with sentiment and elegy, O these dear children. And the light in my beloved's eyes as he listens to their chatter, his hand reaching for my knee under the restaurant picnic table . . . Our waterstained lives unfold like a message in a bottle.

But I must return to the commonsense world of turkey dinner. Yesterday's projects, the apple pie and the cranberry-lemongrass sauce, both came out beautifully. The turkey has been herb-buttered and dry-brined. The giblet stock has been simmered and strained. This morning I will marshal my sous-chef forces: my army of stuffing mixers, potato peelers, squash mashers, carrot dicers, and Brussels sprout trimmers. I will pore over turkey time charts and consider the exigencies of gravy. I will attempt to remember the secret method of fitting six people around a four-person table.

I hope your day, too, contains some bustling comedy, some quiet moments in the corner, a hot drink, a chilly walk . . . Give your darlings a hug from me.