All quiet on Indian summer night as a car rumbles by in the street outside and the dishwasher hums in the kitchen.
A lot of coming and going out there; and probably a lot in here, too.
Someone asked me awhile ago what I had done today. Funny, but I couldn’t really say, although I did say what I had done: two appointments, meals, shopping for groceries, laundry, a few conversations, two newspapers read…
Nothing special. And yet it didn’t feel like nothing special when it was « being done. »
I realize now as I write the words that just being done, nothing special was special.