It feels like graduation day for a poem when it gets accepted for publication, when I get to move it from the “Ready for Submission” to “Published” folder on my laptop.

This morning, I just did that for another poem, “Rooted,” one about my son. It will go live on my birthday over at Poetry Habitat, so it’s extra special. Ironically, it mentions a birthday.

More meaningfully, it mentions my hope for his future. I don’t take for granted that he will be with us this Thanksgiving, that he texted to ask what I want for my birthday. 

(I know he won’t mind it if I talk about him. That boy (well, man) is an open book, and always willing to share his recovery story.) 

The poem says it all. Coming to Poetry Habitat on November 20. 

My poem “Scooter Dude” is live over there today. I’m grateful to the editors and for the lovely, lovely words they had for my poems. It’s not the praise, it’s the connection, that means so much. I’m so happy the poems have found such a good home. 

Word Raccoon smells scones, and she’s asking me if they’re savory or sweet. She’s hoping savory, but is guessing they’re sweet. We may have to ask a barista soon. 

Speaking of that writing pal of mine, she was first of all thrilled this morning that I found a WHOLE POUCH of seasonal earrings I’d forgotten about. She made me pull the leaf earrings out and put them on NOW, NOW, NOW!

She rejected three outfits. Now we look like spring is wearing fall earrings. She also insisted on a yellow necklace. Sigh. 

But there’s this…she asked for silence this morning. She only took two bites of her breakfast before pushing it away. (Now she’s eating a scone. Turns out it’s sweet, but it’s apple, and they warmed it up for us and it’s perfect.) 

We were up early and I asked if she wanted to read or write. She shook her head no. She’s plotting, I know she is.

We have a list of fall chores we want to do, and since we pretty much missed the window for several of the outdoors chores we had planned (grief does not want to wield a paintbrush and then it was too cold, and though we would VERY MUCH like to climb a ladder to clean the gutters, we have been forbidden), she consented this morning to cleaning out what is rather old-fashionedly called “The Secretary,” a piece of furniture previously owned by Barry’s parents. 

The desk area has become a catchall, and periodically it has to be sorted or you can’t close the door. For such a small place, it holds an amazing amount. 

We sorted it this morning: keep, toss, pass on, put away. 

It’s not perfect, and there’s a pile of “put away” things still on the dining room table, but I was so pleased to rediscover things (like that pouch of earrings!) I had forgotten about. 

(If I haven’t seen things for a while, I forget about them. WR is writhing, insisting I let you know I don’t mean you, dear reader! Never you! We are always delighted to see you, to talk with you, if you cross our paths, but forget you? Ha!) 

(WR says “delighted” is a pale word for anything she feels. As if we don’t all know that raccoon feels things at an 11.) 

Her uncharacteristic request for quiet continued into the morning. When I asked her, after we arrived at the cafe, if I might listen to Christmas music, she said yes. 

When I asked if I could ask when I could expect whatever she’s plotting on the writing front, she hissed. “Just go to CVS this afternoon, go to the thrift shop, the gym, do the things and I’ll let you know when.” 

Well, okay. I reckon she really wants to spend those bonus bucks before they expire. And I know she’s hunting for more glass canisters, but why so mysterious, WR?

And in the meantime, WR, what now?

I’m listening to Dylan’s version of “Must Be Santa,” and the video for it is my favorite thing Dylan has ever done, hand to god. 

The universe is conspiring to give me more writing time today: our neighbor brought over a huge pan of lasagna yesterday. 

“Because you’re good neighbors,” he said.

WR grabbed that aluminum pan and ran with it even as I was telling our kind neighbor that he had read my mind: I had literally been thinking two days before that I ought to make lasagna. What a sweet gesture. He even wrote reheating instructions on it.  

Word Raccoon whispered to me that someone had just given us more writing time. Don’t I know it!

She says the weather is conspiring with the universe too, because being able to write on the sunporch in November like we plan to do this afternoon? We’re elated! 

WR is twirling her finger. Wrap it up.  

Ooh…whatever it is, is about to happen. I just know it. 

Writing, here we come!