How much of this is fog and how much of this is smoke?

Slow start to the morning. More water and hot tea. Laundry while we wait.

I don’t think she’s coming.

He only wants one kind of shoe. “Not in my budget,” I say. “Can I have this hoodie?” “Nope. Not until you can follow the rules about wearing hoodies in school,” I say. He walks out of the store. This is thirteen.

Things are more normal at lunch. Though I am too tired to say much.

Cobbler first. Then the chimichurri. Boil the potatoes. Fry the onions. Get the focaccia dough started. Chop all the herbs.

I tell him that I miss cooking. I miss feeling as though I had the time to cook a good meal.

I keep thinking of how she wrote to me that I often write about being tired. I think of how I keep taking blood tests and quitting caffeine to try to fix this fatigue. It’s just me. I am the one making myself tired.

We all agree that we do not regret our move to this town.

This or something better.