Yesterday afternoon I tried to use the printer, but for some reason it wouldn't work. Out of paper, I thought, and opened the drawer, only to discover that the paper was soaking wet. Looked up, and saw a damp patch in the ceiling in T's study. A leak. So that was one more fret to load onto his shoulders: fix the roof before the next round of storms comes in on Saturday morning. But one amazing thing about T is how calm he stays. Having grown up in a highly anxious household, I appreciate hanging around with someone who doesn't get all wound up. T shrugs, and then he figures out how to solve the problem, and then he quietly sits down on the couch and eats some pretzels and works on a crossword puzzle.

This morning I'll drive a half-hour north to band practice, then hustle back to Portland for a zoom meeting at 1. Lots of music talk, lots of poem talk: that will be my day . . . and the sun will shine, and I'll have a Friday night at home with my dear one, and here's hoping he figures out how fix the leak before the sun goes down. I have every confidence in him.

Last night T went out to an art opening and I went out to write, and then, before bedtime, we hung out together, talking about our evenings, sharing funny conversations, being cheerful. I told him I like these nights when we separate and come back together, and he agreed. Both of us with private lives; both of us happy to be home again.