I tried to write something today. Words on electronic “paper.” Something just didn’t feel quite right. I pulled out a notebook, a worn, creased thing with stains on the corners and smudges in the ink. I poured myself another cup of coffee (decaf, thanks to a weaning so carefully orchestrated by my husband; but the placebo memory holds fast). I settled onto the groove on the futon on the back porch, smiled at the bamboo chimes as they echoed over the noise of cars driving by on just the other side of the fence. It was too chilly for me, this autumn air. I wrapped my fingers around my mug and uncapped my pen. I wrote, and all was right.