Ten.Three Hundred & Fifty-Seven

1. Still raining. Cool enough for jeans. 

2. The way the soft light of morning illuminates the typewriter and the notebook and the wax and the candle. The way this space finally feels like sacred space. Gratitude. 

3. Trying to come up with meals that can feed all of us while I try to honor what my own body is calling out for. How maybe the food doesn't have to be that different for all of us. 

4. Still raining. I run the aisles for the regular items and add a few special items like a wedge of manchego. 

5. He asks me about the lockbox on the front door. Are we moving? I don't know. They are moving. They have only a few more weeks before they head back to a place that feels more like home. 

6. I help the girls make cookies. It warms me to know that the last time they spend together is doing this. 

7. Maps.

8. I tell him I don't feel like making dinner. He orders pizza. I breathe a sigh of relief 

9. I finish the pint of Madagascar Vanilla Talenti. Some things aren't ever worth their cost. This gelato is. 

10. Wishing you didn't know the things you aren't supposed to know.