October 7, 2018 (Sunday)
In the den with the fruit flies on the couch I lay listening to the tic of the clock, the dog shifting, the sound of a jet outside, and nothing else worth noting. We are each of us in our separate rooms this Sunday burrowed in like bugs with our comforts and our things. We are back to the season of journaling, of sketching trees, and drawing baths. I start at the top of this notepad realizing it was October last year I began, looking at myself then, a year younger—notes, grocery lists, beef chili recipes and comments about the frogs outside. We really don’t change much over time. We are like stews ourselves, either improving with age or about to go off.