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Location: Work.
Listening: "Copper Line" by James Taylor.

Thoughts for the morning:

• I woke in chilly darkness and tiptoed around the bedroom, trying to find a pair of heavy black tights. I finally had to switch on the bedside lamp; Peter mewled in his sleep and rolled over, curling into a ball against the light. I tucked the feather duvet around him and stroked his hair until I felt his muscles relax. He sighed and smiled in his sleep, and I quietly closed the door behind me.

• The sun slid up from behind a mound of clouds as I was driving in, turning the previously charcoal sky varying shades of orange. Small drops still blew against my windshield; the moon hung in silhouette against another mound of clouds due west, over the cargo ships in the port. Sun, moon, water, sky--my drive to work.

• I ate two bowls of cantaloupe from the dining room downstairs. It was suprisingly ripe, tender and dripping juice. Winter melon. My grandmother grew them in her garden and might still. She's eighty-eight now and living alone in the big, wooden house in which she was born. I should call.

• He says that if things go as planned, I won't have to work. I will work, I know it, because I've rarely worked for necessity alone. Call it another kind of necessity, beyond the financial. I work because it's what I do. It's what I need to do to feel real, settled firmly in this world. I wonder if that's strange.