Early November

I feel settled, in myself, pleasant gray, Seagull cries, feral cats, walks on the beach, memories of novels set in seaside Britain.

Sink full of dishes, seafood chowder, a clean fridge, hot coffee, black and white cookies, bowls of pasta and vodka sauce, grocery stores of memories.

A down comforter, wood burning fires, the voice of Alan Cumming, time alone, time with others, quiet hellos, memories of conversations had alone.

Ignored emails, deleted accounts, storybooks, kids singing, crayon drawings, tripping on toys, catalogs of memories that aren’t mine