It's 6:30 in the evening and nearly dark. Petra's asleep. Wally's studying the 1 train route when it temporarily went out to New Lots Ave in Brooklyn. Did I know it used to go there? No I didn't. But I told you. Then I forgot. Dinner is ready and cooling off on the table. Alex is still in Brazil. I'm considering making a salad - I do have nice red leaf lettuce from the greenmarket - but I'm leaning against it. Too quiet here and nice, the glass of wine, the journal, the purple pen. Stealing this little minute to write. To think back on the day and feel it turn into night. Is Petra napping, meaning she'll be up late, way past Wally? Or does this count as going to bed? She's 5 months, at the age when it starts to be a question, something I should eventually sort out.
This is where I left off, two evenings ago. That's where I seem to get to, these days, with writing. Not even to the beginning, but only to the preamble. This is where I am. This is where I can begin. Even that feels like an accomplishment. The momentary pause. The twilight and the glass of wine.