Alarm didn't go off this morning, so we rolled out of bed in a flurry. But I'm settled down now, with my coffee and my couch corner, and letting T continue the flurry on his own. Yesterday was the day I expected, full of texts and phone calls and texts and phone calls, with work squeezed around the edges. But the surgery was routine, and now we wait to see what happens next. Nonetheless, I'm tired . . . ragged nights and days, and so much fret and doom. 

But this moment is sweet. Cool air flickers through the open windows. Blotches of sunlight dapple the neighbor's vinyl siding. Overhead, a gang of gulls swirls and screams. In a few minutes I'll hoist myself into the day--dishwashing, laundry-lugging, bed-making, kitchen-shining: the daily re-set, everything in its its place, soaped and tidied, before I take myself upstairs to my study. It's a bit of a prayer, this domestic trudge, a way to steady the lurch. Without it, I careen.

So the day will pass: desk work, reading Rilke, the inevitable clog of texts and phone calls. And in the evening T and I will walk over to the baseball field and spend a few hours with summer.