Ten.Two Thousand, Four Hundred & Eight
Slow Sunday.
Quiet house. Listmaking. Hot coffee. Soft socks and Birkenstocks.
Salt crust around his nose and mouth.
Car wash. Water keeps blowing back in my face. I think I’m doing this wrong, but something is better than nothing. Sweating as I vacuum all the crumbs.
Present-self thanking past-self for thinking this through.
Space.
We really were only one away.
I keep saying that I’ll have a break before next season, but that’s not true. I’m already pulling together summer and pre-season and the first weeks of November.
Too many Rice Krispies treats.
Gratitude.
