“The last thing one discovers in composing a work is what to put first.”
― Blaise Pascal

Saturday without a schedule. Frank is awake and gone, and it’s still quite early. Quiet house. A warming day. I work on my manuscript before I swim. I reread the whole collection of poems I’ve been working on, make some tweaks, and then hit send. It’s off to my poetry coach who has been consulting with me on this collection. I feel better about the ms. than I expected to––nice surprise. Then I take that happiness with me to the pool and swim with it. It’s warm enough to go to Farm Pond, but I really want to do my laps and I know if I go to Farm Pond I won’t swim as long. And they take the bubble off Monday, it’s closed all week. I’m glad to be in the pool and have a great swim. The house is ours today; just me and Frank. This is very strange. We have plenty to do and no distractions. We buy vegetables to plant in the garden tomorrow. In a leisurely way. And it’s blistering hot. I decide to work indoors. Now, here is the deal about cleaning a closet. It’s impossible to clean one. All the closets near that one closet will have to be organized as well. I tackle one and end up tackling three. Not mine. Two bedroom closets and a linen closet and a hallway. It feels terrific. And tiring, yes, but quite satisfying to remove all the things that don’t belong in the closets or the house anymore. I remember my parents going through this phase. Trying to sort their house after children are grown and gone. I was not very helpful. Hmmmmm. It’s my turn.