Husband on his way home, chickens all alive, orange cat with one eye swollen shut; she will not leave the other cat unthreatened and he responds.
Trash taken and mailbox checked. I always feel as if someone is in that little post office room with me, no matter how empty it is. Is it haunted? Maybe. Maybe not. An old, old train station. Who can know how or if these things happen?
Breakfast eaten, sheets in the washer, texts sent and received about status of birthday party preparations and Owen's excitement level.
All of this so good, except for the cat, of course, so fine and the sun is shining and the air is shimmering and firespike is catching a light and a squirrel is climbing a tree with a mushroom in its mouth that he just plucked from the ground and I'm going to get to see all of my kids and all of my grandkids and other people I love and then later, my husband, and we're celebrating my first grandchild, the one who's been my best friend in some ways since his birth, and all of this is so good, so good, so very fine indeed and I'm in knots and tatters and I'm really tired of this.
The squirrel ran back and got another mushroom and ate it, perched on the side of a clay pot holding it in his little hands and taking enthusiastic bites. I guess these mushrooms must be delicious and probably not deadly. I do not know a thing about mushrooms and quite frankly, it shocks me how I can be the age I am and know so little about so much.
I guess that's about it for now.