Sunday

For awhile now, a foghorn has been sounding, low and soft, from the Sound, and a bird has been saying, right here, outside my treehouse, “Da wizard, da wizard, da wizard.” The sky keeps changing from grey to blue, and what’s left of the rain just hangs from new buds and pods. All my windows are open, though I’m wearing a sweater and a down vest inside, and my nose is cold.

It’s spring, time to let the outside in. And it’s Sunday: in our old loft in Brooklyn, we’d move the furniture around on Sundays. Maud would call from school and say, “What are you guys doing?” And I’d laugh and say, “Moving the furniture—it’s Sunday. Wanna come over?” Today I moved my shrine from the livingroom into my tiny bedroom, to make way for Guru Yoga, which starts tomorrow. I want to be socked in and snug on the floor between my warm, soft bed and the closet. There will be music (da wizard, da wizard), and there will be space.

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