. . . and so the holiday recedes behind the hills. 

I woke this morning to T's alarm, to T beside me in bed, to regular weekday 5 a.m. life. I made the coffee, I let out the cat, and now here I sit, alert and quiet, as rain-sodden first light glimmers flatly through the laden maples.

I spent nearly all of yesterday working on what had become a complex and challenging poem draft. It was absorbing work, but by late afternoon the draft had found its shape, and I was ready to let it rest. Between bursts of writing, I read, and walked, and scrubbed out kitchen cupboards, and harvested salad in the rain. In the early afternoon T sent me a text from the bus: "Looking forward to seeing you" . . . a plain little mash note that made me glad all of the rest of the day, because what is sweeter than knowing that the person you want to see also wants to see you? I lit a wood fire and made dinner in anticipation of his arrival: prepped haddock for baking, roasted kale, boiled red potatoes for salad, simmered a pepper and tomato sauce. At 7:30 I fetched him home from the bus station, and we spent the evening in chatter--drinking rose in the kitchen as I baked the fish, catching up on the Brooklyn gossip, the Portland gossip, and then early to bed as rain clattered and sighed.

Today, back to work for both of us. I'll be at my desk, editing a short-story manuscript, catching up on teaching obligations; in the interstices, dealing with groceries, laundry, the minutiae of the household. He'll be installing finicky trim in a mansion-under-construction. Our days climb forward, stair upon stair. We separate and the return, separate and return. It is a love story.