Another very cold morning, and a busy day ahead--a doctor's appointment, a zoom meeting with my poetry lab quartet, and then an outing with my neighbor to the photo auction gala that Tom's been prepping so hard this week. She and I will make a tour of the art, and then we'll go eat Puerto Rican food, if we can find a parking spot and a table, while poor T spends the whole evening managing crises or tediously standing around.

At least he had yesterday evening off, home alone on the couch while I was away churning out a couple of satisfying poem blurts at last night's salon. I returned to discover him watching Godzilla, and what is more relaxing than that?

I've been making progress on the small editing project, falling behind on housework, and sleeping reasonably well at night. My kids are checking in on me; Joe Castiglione, my favorite Red Sox radio announcer, just got elected to the Hall of Fame; and I'm reading a good book: Irene Nemirovsky's Fire in the Blood. Next, I think I'll go back to Oliver Twist. I haven't had a Dickens wallow in ages, and one of yesterday's writing prompts reminded me how rich and raw and stumbling and miraculous that young man's novel was when it appeared. The dear child: I should spend a few days with him again.