The bus made good time, and we landed in the little northern city by the sea 45 minutes earlier than scheduled--a miracle on the New York route, which is almost always snarled in traffic. Our neighbor sweetly fetched us home, and the cat howled his relief at our return, stomping around in delight as he watched me light a fire and get out the cribbage board and thus prove that we had no intention of leaving him alone again.

And so here we are at Monday again. Shortly T will trudge off to work, and I will battle with laundry and house stuff and groceries as I ready myself for tomorrow's trip north and the restart of my high school year.

It snowed while we were gone--just a couple of inches, but enough to change the quality of light, add a glimmer of pale below the darkness. Home feels restful, even spacious, after a few days in the crowded Brooklyn apartment, and its familiar sounds and smells are comforting. Our visit was so lovely, so cathartic, in so many ways. But I am ready to be home, and sorry that I have to leave again so soon.

Well, such is the working life. At least I have all of today to get myself and my air space in order.

I will read Southey and Cowper, I will work on poem drafts, I will wash floors and wash clothes, I will restock the cupboards, I will go for a walk, I will answer emails, I will make dinner, I will water houseplants, I will smile at Tom, I will think wistfully of our children, I will squeeze the cat, and all of this everyday clutter is being alive, and I am trying to pay attention to that, trying to remember that now is all that I can count on, and so I am counting on it as hard as I can.