… how sharp one’s senses become after a week away from suburban stimuli. Last night, I was very aware of the crickets around my bro’s house up north, and the occasional pop of the big wooden house as it cooled during the night. Tonight, as I climbed the steps to my condo, I could hear someone’s clothes tumbling in the dryer, in the building across the driveway from mine. It’s all good. The fact that I could hear the dryer means that everyone has settled in for the night and gotten quiet.

Yep, I’m home from my trip to the rural Sierra Nevada foothills. I miss J & L & little T, their kitties and all the fun we had. Last night, we went to an arcade in Roseville and played miniature golf. That was good; hadn’t played in years.

It’ll be sad and lonesome here, of course. I miss my little fuzzy one. But the pall of unremitting grief has lifted. I have depressurized, and I’m grateful for it.

I’m tired. I slept like crapity crap last night, and got maybe three poor hours of sleep. Don’t know why. Then I drove eight hours, downing two Red Bulls along the way. So I’m going to watch TV. If I owe you an e-mail or a call, hang in there. All good things in God’s good time.