I keep waiting for winter to happen. It snowed today. Laura picked me up with her car (a car!) and we went to work and worked and then we went to the Y and worked out and then she dropped me off at the mouth of my alley and I walked up the alley to the back of my house and the dead rat is still there but a little more worn, a little stiffer from the cold. It’s not the right kind of snow—somehow coming too late and not enough and only awkward to deal with.

It is icy now, probably. I have been reading a fantasy novel on a Nook, of all things. My first e-reading in bed before sleeping that is a novel and not this. It is a difficult experience in that I keep browsing running shoes, sewing patterns, knife-sharpening stones every handful of sentences.

So much happens and nothing happens. I don’t work for a literary journal anymore. That’s a something that is nothing. I turned twenty-five and have the same day job as when I was nineteen. My house is poorly insulated but it has been mostly a strange, warm winter.