A Sunday

Coming home was the easiest for me. It meant sleeping in a little longer. But for others there were two red-eye flights, driving 24 hours straight through, and making a vacation of a cross-country drive.

I've made a vacation of these last few days. I've slept them away, mostly. Dreams fumbling with reality or what I thought was reality. I can never really be sure if those phone conversations I remember having actually happened or if I really did that laundry.

The laundry will take me days. I did darks yesterday as evidenced by the all-black gear I currently sport. Maybe tomorrow I'll do the second load of lights. Maybe not. Then there's always the business casual that must be washed cold water, like colors. They're all different colors.

I'm making Chicken Mirabella for dinner in celebration of the fact that today I will be eating dinner. I hate having to wait for it to thaw, though, and I can't hear my own thoughts over the lawn-mower in the front yard. As it nears it becomes so loud that I forget what exactly I was doing and I have to start all over again with the basting and the spices and the preheating of the oven.

Oh well. Night and day don't much matter anymore so I suppose the chicken will be finished sometime as well as the articles and the three magazines I'm reading and the to-do list out the door.