Somehow, though the wind whipped and the skies glowered, we never got a drop of rain yesterday. Such a disappointment. I long for days of wet, but the drought goes on and on.

Tuesday. T is home again, so I am allowing myself another slowish start before I trudge up to my desk. I'll finish editing a chapter, then turn my thoughts to high school plans. I'll get onto my mat; I'll return a library book; I'll figure out something for dinner.

In the meantime the big kitten curls against my shoulder and purrs into my ear. Dear little Charles. He glows with such cheerful light.

Today Vox Populi has published "Don't Tell Me You Don't Know What Love Is," my elegy to Ray. I didn't choose the timing but it is poignant. Ray died last October, while we were staying at the cottage in West Tremont. And now it is another October, and we'll drive out again to the cottage on Saturday.

I wrote a note to myself while cooking dinner the other night: "In a way it is romantic to grow old." All of the loves gathering round.