Early December

I had to wiggle out of bed this morning, my torso sandwiched between two large dogs. It's cold out. I'm watching another semester close. Jo will be home momentarily, or in a week. I should do all the baking ahead. Tom's car needs an alignment and new tires. I'm dreaming of Bisbee, Arizona, where I could get by with a jacket at night and short sleeves during the day. I would buy dishes from the Bisbee pottery lady when her shop is open and she's not somewhere else, stoned. Meanwhile, in Indiana, my grandfather is dying, the last one. I'm working my regular day and night job, where I learn that the woman who was murdered in Covert, her face was stuck to the pavement of Blue Star Highway after she had been run over three times by various cars. I used up all my strong emotions when I was younger. If the weather warms up I'll go to the park. I'll walk the dogs.