I make my way home each evening, always an hour later than I have the energy for, half-listening to History of Love because I am still thinking about books. Wondering if my apartment will be cool or stuffy, because I left the AC off today. Hoping that there’s anything there that can pass for dinner, because I cannot bear to stop and buy anything.
I am worn to a nub by readers, sometimes well-meaning readers, who want me to tell them what to read. Or better yet, who want me to tell them what “everybody” is reading. Or I must hand them the exact book they are looking for (you know, the one that was reviewed some time in the past week no month no year in the Times no the Journal no Vanity Fair, and of course they can’t remember the author or title or even what the book is really about, but why don’t I know what they are talking about?).
This too shall pass. In eighteen days the road west will be filled with Summer People returning to their regular lives. We’ll return to ours, too.
Until then, I am grateful for rows of easy knitting, yards of meditative plying, for all the blessings of a life that is quiet when I need it to be. Like now, tonight, while the night things chirp and the moon is near full, and September is just around the corner.
Not Plain Jane 