The alarm has not gone off yet. Just the sound of ocean waves.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. I scoop the last of the coffee beans into the grinder. I wonder if the coffee from Red Bay is coming yet. Maybe I don’t need to drink coffee anyway. I am trying to rest, after all.

Probably didn’t need the brown sugar.

Tuesday group on a Friday.

If this is really the end, I’m not going out feeling stressed and depressed.

I realize that what I’m experiencing are actually mini panic attacks. I should probably lay off the coffee.

I miss the best parts of the writing group, trying to help her download and print and upload her math. I’m frustrated. It is what it is.

We talk about quarantine life and New Orleans and otherness and the books we’re reading.

The roses are exploding. I clip them, use the blade of the scissors to remove the thorns.

I head over to the hammock and flood my ears with Leon Bridges. I inhale the scent of orange blossoms and feel the breeze blow through my hair.

I face toward the sun and drink the Sangiovese while he tries to reassure me.

“Did you have sock hops when you were in high school?” “Sock hops? Oh my god, you’re so old.”