I woke up at 5:30 bewildered. No alarm, and somehow I'd managed to sleep straight through the night, which never happens, and I was dreaming I was changing a diaper, and I couldn't understand why Tom was up and getting dressed before me, which also never happens . . . the whole thing was a muddle, and I am still reeling from my long sleep, from my jolt awake, from the notable memory of that little warm baby in my arms, clean and sweet in his fresh pajamas.

Well, here I am, I guess. Awake and upright. Waiting (another strange thing) for Tom to bring me my coffee.

Now that I'm slightly less confused, I should focus on being pleased about this unusually solid sleep, but I am a little lonely for that dear vivid little baby, with his ginger crest and his goofball smile.

Ah well.

It's Tuesday, and I need to pull myself together before for my jaunt to Lewiston. I'm looking forward to the outing: a stroll around town with my friend Dave; then lunch and a reading. It will be a completely new sort of audience for me, and to prep I found myself pulling poems from each of my books--gleaning from the history of my own storytelling . . . an odd experience, but enjoyable.

Still, that little dream baby lingers. That dense heat of an infant tucked up against a shoulder. The wobble-neck; the newborn's ancient eyes, like a sea turtle's.