Summer is kicking my ass, frankly. It's not just the heat, it's the house full of kids* and the lack of a meaningful schedule. Also, the Featureless Saint and I start back to our real jobs in about two weeks, which means there are syllabi to write, etc., but the kids don't go back to school for two weeks after that. Which means that the juggling will soon commence and I am too hot to think too hard about it.
Which might be why I started crying in the middle of the bookstore** yesterday.
Before I open the door on Sunday, I've gotten into the habit of picking up the Garrison Keillor edited Good Poems and flipping it open at random. Yesterday's poem -- John Updike's Dog's Death -- nearly broke me into a thousand pieces, partly because it's a great piece of work but mostly because good friends just had their new puppy die.
So that's how my Sunday afternoon started, weepy and in awe of Updike for so perfectly capturing the ineffable. And also slightly ticked off that Updike wrote something that I love, dang it. But that's my issue, not his.
* Usually only two of them, yes, but it feels like four dozen when you are trying to actually finish a sentence.
** For those just tuning in, I work at the Green Toad, my local bookstore, a few hours every month because it makes me happy to hang around with the books (and the women I work with, natch).