Sunday afternoon and we're all home, except Phil. Projects upstairs, down. The dryer clanking. NPR on the kitchen radio. "I'm going to be emotional," a woman said as I listen on my way to the restroom, having no idea of context. Then the woman is emotional and the NPR reporter so graceful about it. Deb is blending apples from the tree. Bill is sawing. I'm cleaning as usual. Light dapples the house. It is fine to be my age. It is fine to have arrived here. In my dreams from childhood, this should have been one.
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