It’s going to be a summer of waiting here. The team at work is breaking up in July, next homes as yet unknown. The kid is moving out in August to go to law school. One of the cats has inoperable mammary cancer, and the vet thinks she has about three months. Waiting is never just that, though. You alternately laugh and roll your eyes, and you bring a jar of peanut butter and a spoon to your desk at lunchtime with your camping cup of Diet Dr. Pepper. At night you talk about the past present future, and you wave a hand at the living room and say “Consider this your IKEA, and everything’s already built.” In the morning you see her in her little blue cone and you burst into tears out of what feels like nearly nowhere, and she hides under the coffee table again because she’s still fairly comfortable, and you’re just being way too much.
All along with all the usual. You save an email to delete unread for when you know you’ll really want to delete an email unread. You read a novel that's closer to how you want to write than you are. You look at your passport renewal paperwork, complete with envelope and postage, that’s been sitting on your desk for the last eight months.
Then you take your camping cup outside, you inhale deeply, you look at the car you keep forgetting that you have now, you look up and you say hi back to a neighbor you don’t recognize who’s walking their absurdly large dog, and you remember that it’s been a lot worse, not even that long ago really, and now it’s now and whatever is next.
My Pilot Parallel pens are around here somewhere — when I find them, I’ll take some not-everyday samples out for a drive. Stay tuned.