I am trying to write to you about rain and fog but Little Chuck is determined to type, and his grammar is inscrutable. If any peculiar asdfiawefagswegasdcs show up in this letter, assume that they refer to snuggling and cool stuff in the basement.

Meanwhile, I am taking advantage of his sudden need for a snack to return to the topic of rain and fog. We got a beautiful afternoon rainstorm yesterday, and I think more rain overnight too. As a result, this morning the neighborhood is soaking wet and layered in mist, and the garden looks drunk. Yesterday's laundry is dripping on the line, the maples are laced with cloud, and the air has the briny sea-scent I love so much.

Today is Monday, a back-to-work day and also my older son James's 31st birthday. He is a delight and an amazement to me . . .  such an extraordinary being--hilarious and capable and determined and patient and kind and smart and endlessly curious--and I don't know how I got so lucky. As my friend Gretchen said yesterday, there's some sort of magic in these children. Look at all the mistakes we made. Look at how magnificent the children are anyway.

I'm glad I had a quiet weekend at home . . . well, not quiet, given Little Chuck; perhaps cozy is the better word. It was good to have a little cat racketing around, good to hang out with T, good to do a few tasks and work on a poem and read comfort novels and listen to baseball. I feel more or less ready to return to my desk obligations today. This morning I think I'll also get back onto my mat and start relearning my cool-season exercise routine. I tend to let the mat stuff slide during the summer, what with all of my yard and garden hoisting and squatting and lugging. But I should start reacquainting my body with autumn. It's coming soon enough.