I am rocking on a porch swing on a shaded patio. I am showered and wearing a skirt. I have a cold drink, an electric fan pushing air past me — hardly cool but pleasant. Over the fan’s drone, the sound of birds, a screen door across the street banging shut, someone half a block away, calling to a friend.
Vans and trucks have been rented and then returned, my old house cleaned. My stuff is mostly tucked sleeping into the vast storm cellar at the new house: sometime next week painters will come and then I will have the contemplative work of unpacking all those boxes, slipping their contents into their new homes — but that is later. For now, for the next few weeks, I am here, in this dormitory, sleeping on a single bed and talking about writing for every waking minute.
The first of the workshoppers comes late tonight, and then a few more tomorrow. I have projects to work on, and it will be the first consistent writing I have done since, perhaps, last fall.
The frenzy of the last six months is over(ish). These few weeks are going to be magic.