It was such a spring day as breathes into a man an ineffable yearning, a painful sweetness, a longing that makes him stand motionless, looking at the leaves or grass, and fling out his arms to embrace he knows not what.
As I write this, it’s around supper time on Wednesday evening. It’s been ages since I posted here any time other than first thing in the morning, yet here I am. I’ve trained myself to write here soon after I wake–day after day, tapping out words on my iPad–so It feels odd to be here just now, downstairs in the woman cave, sitting at my desk, and working on my laptop.
The words flow in a different way. Perhaps I’ll have time to rework them in the morning. Perhaps not.
We are getting up early (on which will, by then, really be Thursday, March 22) to hit the road. I may not have time to come by this space so I’m planning ahead and scheduling this post. There’s a possibility you’ll never read these words because if I wake early enough I may rework this whole post. If you’re reading these words, I didn’t.
Funny this, writing to the future.
In the morning we’re going to pick up our granddaughter and bring her back to spend a few days with us. Shenanigans will, of course, ensue. She’s already promised a dance party; it’s been a good many years since I participated in a dance party.
For now, while I wait for Gerry to come in from the garage where he’s painting baseboards in preparation for new flooring and carpet that we’re having installed soon, I tap out these few uninspired words. Forgive me.