By the end of most weeks, I feel wrung out but victorious, with the gratitude of someone who has just received a miracle diagnosis: the dreaded symptoms actually only pointed to something benign. I've swum safely to the rock of another weekend.
I love weekends, when I can sleep past 4am, be home in the daylight longer than ten minutes, and chauffeur only here and there instead of everywhere. I get caught up a little in the housework, I see my husband before noon. I have breakfast with my daughters: crepes with chocolate and strawberries and powdered sugar, bacon for them, turkey sausage, eggs, melon, and coffee out of a mug that doesn't have a lid or a company logo.
The leaves are starting to drop in the courtyard, we've lit the furnace, Thanksgiving is fast approaching - and I haven't even sat down to say yet what the light in October means to me.
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