Another scorcher on the way today, with the possibility of thunderstorms overnight. I'm hoping hard for rain: we are so dry, and it is so early to be watering as heavily as I am.
Already it's 65 degrees outside--a cool humid dawn, and the birds have been singing wildly since 4 a.m.
Yesterday Paul went on an all-day outing, driving an hour west to hike up Pleasant Mountain, which meant that I was alone in the house for most of the day. I didn't write: I had to edit; but I got a whole lot done on the files, and the uninterrupted time felt miraculous. I'd almost forgotten that I could focus on a job for hours at a time.
In a few weeks Paul will be flying out to Chicago, and he and James will embark on a three-week Western road trip together. For the two of them, it should be a wonderful coda to a terrible year. When he gets back, he'll turn his attention to moving to New York City; and by late summer, if all goes to plan, I should get my study back and can start relearning how to be alone. It will be a shock, this repeat bout of empty nesting . . . but the change will be right.
In the meantime, I'll retreat back into my peripatetic routine: a dash of work amid distractions and chores. But the backyard should be shady and pleasant, a good place for ice tea and the Odyssey. I'll endure my exercise class before the weather gets too hot; I'll finish a few pages of my editing project; maybe I'll start the essay I need to write for Teresa's poetry letter; eventually I'll compile a chicken, cucumber, and macaroni salad for dinner. The darkness will slowly filter down among the maple leaves, and the fading yellow blooms of the rhododendron will float like pale moons in the gloaming.