First sunny morning in Seattle, all year. I rediscover our yard, the abandoned shed at the back of the property. Roof caved-in beneath fallen cottonwood, can’t get close enough to see what’s inside. I could take back all the blackberry vines now, but if I did that, the kids would get to it.
All there is to do in the yard. I look at the pile of wood I made from two fruit trees I cut down, think about moving it to the back so the grass doesn’t die, there.
But when I go inside the house I see the cat on the rug in the living room, stretched out in the sun, I hear the Classical station playing Sunday morning Baroque, and I take to the sofa, cracking my new Cormac McCarthy novel, from 1965, his first.
It’s a dark amusement park, but the views from the top of the rides are fantastic.