What time is it?

I open his door and hear him snoring. Good. How many times did he wake me up? Maybe I can get a nap today.

I smell the coffee as soon as I step into the kitchen. I tell him it smells like coffee shop coffee. Simple pleasures.

The way the bird of paradise looks electric in the glow of the morning sun.

I start to clean out the corner by the desk. It is full of things from Fever Dreams and baskets and frames, loose cords and papers. I find pictures of them getting their first library cards and old school pictures.

We both have Leo sons. We both feel like this time is for us to lean into what’s calling. I don’t feel particularly helpful, but I am grateful for the connection.

I say that for eyeballing it, two degrees isn’t that bad. He doesn’t seem to think so. It’s even now, though. I hang a garland of her rosebuds, the Turkish towel, my gray scarf. Beside it, I hang a white ceramic saguaro. This little vignette makes me happy. Now, for a bench. Or maybe I reclaim the settee from the girl.

Hammock. Sun so hot I begin to sweat. I put on shorts and take off my sweater. I hold the magazine above me to block out the sun. The heat feels good on my legs. Oh yes, now it’s coming back to me. I remember the slow burn of summer.

I keep looking at imagery, trying to find what fits the words, the feeling.

I realize that I have eggs, but no baskets. It’s probably okay. We can figure it out.