It’s quiet. My dog is sleeping in a sun spot on the floor by the glass door to the rear of this townhome we’ve bought (sorta). (Townhome sounds strange to me— duplex? Triplex (if one counts the basement)?)
In an hour, my stepfather will arrive wth tools. He’s a handyman in every sense of the word. Today’s primary goal is hanging pictures, which I might handle solo were my back and hip and leg not still plagued by aches. I have unpacked only a fraction of the books. Taking it slow.
Within a minute of sharing my new address, my brother had pizza recommendations. Friends have offered alternatives. Even the physical therapist named a choice spot for a slice while loosening my hip. South siders know their pizza.
My physical therapist went to the same high school I graduated from years before he was born. He shares my first name. He knew my favorite teacher, the guy who made me realize I love reading.
I read my wife a poem today by Douglas Dunn. A love poem to his wife, who, if I have my Dunn chronology straight, would die and inspire his book Elegies. I then told her that Terry Street was a favorite book, this poem always staying with me because of the “I wish him grass” line. She understands. We had trees and the lake where we were. We have grass here.
Yesterday the dog ran on the grass so quickly it would’ve been easy to think he is a young pup. He lived not far from here before he lived with us. Does my dog, now returned south after a decade north, feel the way I do? Does he feel like he’s home again? Does he run because he feels young and then stops because he feels old?
I have papers to grade already. And a manuscript I agreed to review. And people sending me things. And letters from the people who hold our mortgage, the bill for the chest X-ray. (My wife decided that I cough too much, smoked too much in my wayward days.) None of it feels as burdensome as it should. At least not right now. It will soon. But now I’m having tea and my dog is sleeping and the hour is quiet before I work. Now is not forever.
