My story is here and now, in Maine.
Set against a backdrop of wild unpredictability, little routines emerge. One of my favorites—I wake ahead of others in the sleeping house, leave Laur and Marj tucked in across the bedroom we're sharing this week, tiptoe downstairs barefoot, take care not to wake Jack who's bunking on an aerobed in the living room, and make my way silently to the enclosed sunporch, a favorite room of Muth's.
I sit in a pocket of stillness. I use my wifi-less laptop to draft messages, jot down reminders about this and that, delete tasks enumerated back when I thought I'd be at home this week, prepare for our memorial service for Muth, and bring tiny semblances of order to my days here in Maine.
The clock ticks, Jack snores softly, gentle rain taps the roof one morning, the furnace hums.
I pick up Kitchen Table Wisdom and read a few pages.
I smell traces of recent pizza, Chinese food, and pea soup dinners.
The sky lightens gradually. Golden leaves glow in one tree after another, stretching way back into the woods outside this well-windowed room. I watch tree limbs sway, leaves flutter. I trace the whimsical curlicue paths of dropping leaves, notice the shapes of patches of sky.
I soak up the quiet light, breathe in the stillness, open my heart to the day.
9x6", oil pastels on Aquabee sketch paper