It is 12:01 AM and I am just home from dropping JWM at the airport for the third time in as many consecutive weeks. It seemed like a really brilliant strategy in the beginning, organizing interviews by region and checking them off all at once, but the excitement lasted all of half the PNW and by midweek through the Midwest I was half seriously looking up last minute flights to Minneapolis. I regret right now not being on the red eye to Boston.

In the 27 hours John was home this weekend we absolutely dominated at the bowling alley, shared a shake at Hire's, slept far too long into the morning, stole breakfast at my parents', walked the big hill below our house and into new neighborhoods, read Rilke, went to church, skipped out on choir, repacked his bags, watched the Great British Baking Show and took a nap before the drive back to the airport. After dinner tonight we did the dishes, clearing the table and boxing up leftovers. The gravy was particularly unwieldy so I ended up balancing the roasting pan while John took a spatula to the sauce with one hand and steadied the tupperware with the other, both arms around me and his lips at my ear. I could not stop laughing. This would be the worst romcom, I said. You could not in any montage make this remotely sexy. 

It is 49° right now and the night sky's one pale slab of cloud from lake to mountains, prelude to snow. You can smell it just under the heat in the air, like a high citrus note against sandalwood or the sharp olfactory equivalent of tin on your tongue. It is weird to know that. I am oddly delighted to find that I do know that, as if proving myself still vested of some magic learned in childhood. It is the same with sunlight in early October, or the give of grass near the end of March. Each work in me a deep-blooming recognition and simultaneous surprise — You again! I'd forgotten; I've always known.

I feel sometimes that love is so like the turn of seasons in your hometown, at once full-bodied familiar and then equally astonishing, a perennial miracle.