T goes back to work today, but with a later start than usual so we've had yet another small respite from the alarm clock.

Despite my small wake-up holiday, I've been editing hard all week and have nearly caught up to where I should be, schedule-wise. And I've prepped for my Monson class, finished the Ondaatje novel, and spent time with The Waves and Alice Notley's The Descent of Alette. Work is getting done.

Today will be more scattershot. I'll need to drive my car back to the garage for an inspection sticker. I'm walking with a friend early; then another friend is dropping by in the afternoon because he needs to mourn Baron in company. Maybe, after he leaves, I'll work in the garden--cut down a few more dying perennials, spread a few more bags of soil. I don't know what my state of mind will be, but I am beginning to feel less tired . . . less wrung out, anyway.

In a few minutes I'll get showered, get dressed, get moving. I'll deal with laundry, dishes, firewood, litter box. I'll drop off the car, make breakfast, kiss Tom goodbye. I'll prepare to be sociable.

But always, behind the busyness, the rattle of loneliness. A pebble in a cavern. It echoes.