Storms Nearby.

We are on half-lockdown around here: the boy is fussy, is off schedule, is a week old and seems to be trying on a new routine for the evening. In other news: though it tried and tried to rain here in the Gate City this afternoon, the best we could muster was thunder and the beauty of watching it set up just south and east, a gunmetal gray sky off through the backyard and towards Sedalia. We have a wee something trying to hold itself together as it rolls down out of the Wilkesboros late night, and I'm crossing my fingers, but don't think I trust it enough to feel like I won't be watering-canning the grass seedlings again tomorrow. We'll see. This is where we always land. Seeing.

Held Edward James Olmos in my left arm and figured materials needs with my right all afternoon—I'm feeling like continuing work on the bathroom next week, like framing and trussing and generally moving forward with our lives. Not in spite of EJO, mind you, but, instead, with him. Which is I think the only way to survive it all, the only way to look at him or at me or at anyone and say anything at all out loud and mean it. We must build a life. We must keep building a life.

I may—may—have just heard the far-off rumble of thunder. I always want rain. Feels like tonight I want it even more.