I am inside the book now. For so long I feel like I've felt at the periphery of the story, the consummate spectator, voyeur. But lately, I like I am becoming a participant. Alive. Inside. I didn't write all weekend, but the scenes were turning over and over in my head. It's real now. Really, really, real.
This weekend was so easy. P planted a perennial garden in the winter-wasted spot of lawn in front of our living room window. The possibility of all of that blooming, that color is thrilling: roses, irises, black-eyed Susans, flox. The girls were so good, sweet. I went shopping: for little treats for the girls, a new gauzy blouse for myself. For food. I made buffalo chicken chili with bleu cheese and scallion corn pancakes. We watched movies, I stole moments while the girls were playing to read. I took about a half dozen photos of Esmee today because I couldn't stop looking at her. People are always saying how much she and Kicky look alike, but I am starting to love the beauty of their subtle differences: their mouths, their scowls, their furrowed eyebrows. And God, P is so happy with his new bike. I only wish that spring would finally arrive, instead of this awful teetering at the edge. Still cold.
I think there is a direct correlation between this anticipation of spring and the way I feel about my work right now. It's freezing in here...I am bundled up like an Eskimo, but I know that soon (soon, soon) spring will arrive. It's enough to sustain me through these last purgatorial weeks before the sun finally comes.