Friday. Recycling day, leaf-raking day, packing-for-New-York-in-the-smallest-bag-possible day. This will be a dreadfully compressed trip for us, but at least the boys and their partners will have an actual weekend to hang out together--a glint of cheer amid the sorrow.

I did manage to get stuff done yesterday: returned an editing project to the press, wrote a blurb for a poetry collection, finished my Monson plans, formulated my next Zoom class, plus walked to the dentist, did the housework, proofed a kid's grad-school application, probably did other chores that I can't even remember now . . . and then in the evening I went out to write, which was such sweet relief after a long and sucky fortnight of not being together. For some reason everyone was writing really well; the drafts were just pouring out; it was tonic to be sitting in that room feeling the sparks fly. I love my writing group.

So today I have a poem draft to look at and I have my essay to look at. As far as I can recall, I have no other pressing desk obligations, nothing that can't wait till next week. There are worse ways to enter into a weekend of hard things.

You likely won't hear from me again till Monday. We'll be leaving the house tomorrow at 3:30 a.m., and wifi on the bus is always wonky. Sunday morning I might have a chance to write, but I also might not: we'll be crammed into my son's tiny apartment, and I can't be sure I'll have any waking moments to myself.

Then again I could surprise you, and myself, with a rambling picaresque narrative of my travels. We'll see what happens.