I am writing this, at half past seven, in the breakfast nook that used to be a mudroom. I spent a day, when winter was at its darkest, clearing out the junk that had been allowed to accumulate when we had no specific purpose for this space. Cardboard boxes; glass

I am writing this not precisely after dawn—it is the eve of the summer solstice, and although I woke with the sun I also went back to sleep—but early enough that the clock has not yet marked seven. This mantel clock has handled a weekly winding for well

I am writing this shortly after dawn, in our garden. There are succulents to my right and cucumbers to my left and a pot of lemon balm not quite close enough for me to reach out and pluck one of its leaves. There are two tomato plants and three pepper

I am writing this shortly after dawn, in May 2022, while sitting in a rocking chair that used to belong to Larry’s grandfather. Books, alphabetical by author, are spine-smoothed in shelves to my immediate left; more immediately, at my left elbow, a rougher spine has worked its way out