An evening of crickets through my open windows from the yard. Day’s end, and a tiredness, the kind that comes with gratitude for a day full of opportunities to support writers, to hear stories, to listen deeply, and attend the emotional lives of people I care about. And to eat a simple lunch, a simple dinner. To empty the dishwasher without feeling a complaint. To take a run with my daughter and hear of her most recent interview. To have Charlie with us. To get my feet wet in rain soaked grass. To feel, on this day before the autumn equinox, the late late summer warmth. To observe a tiny frog in the pond in his stillness on the rock. To care for a toddler who isn’t feeling well, his heat against my chest. To start the day, miraculously, poignantly, at a funeral in Dublin that I wished I could attend in person. But, with gratitude to be able to be there, at the funeral mass, bleary eyed with sleep to experience the formal farewell of a beloved father of a dear friend. To be there with her in spirit at this big goodbye. To realize that this is something Covid accustomed us to: streaming rites of passage around the world. Good night crickets. Good night.