I left Chicago so early yesterday that I was unlocking the back door of my own house by 1 p.m. I guess that's why people fly instead of taking the train, though every attribute other than speed is significantly more unpleasant. Still, as flying goes, the trip was smooth--no delays, an aisle seat instead of a dreaded middle one, and the strange noises the plane was making were not a harbinger of doom, though for a while I wondered.

I was still Dramamine-sleepy when I got home, so I spent most of the afternoon easing back into my usual briskness. But I did do a bit of mowing, a bit of vacuuming, a bit of watering, and quite a lot of laundry. It was a beautiful day in Portland--not summer-dress weather, as it was in Chicago, but still lovely for sitting outside and admiring the new blooms and leaves.

Today I've got lots of house and yard work to do, lots of groceries to acquire, lots of desk work to start puzzling through. And of course I'll be mourning Alice Munro, hands-down my favorite contemporary writer, whose influence on my own writing has been massive and complex. Contemporary writer no more. She sits by the side of Milton now, and already she is looking him up and down and making personal comments.

A lonely day. Hugging my son goodbye and flying away into the east. And now there will never be another new Munro story.