I look at the list. I cross off a single item, and then I sit and read, almost furtively, craving the complete escape into another world.
Tonight, the air outside is lovely and cool, and I walked around the yard for just a few moments to feel the breeze on my skin. I tried to just enjoy the smell of summer and the way the grass is still green, but instead I noticed the roses that have not yet been clipped,
and the way the euphorbia, that looked so beautiful in the Spring is old and dry and needs to be cut back so that it can grown new stems.
I try not to see. I want to look with someone else's eyes, and only see a cool summer evening, but the weeds laugh at me, and inside there is a new Adriana Trigiani novel waiting. It sits there with its sympathetic main character, and descriptions of handmade shoes, and I know that I can pour myself a glass of wine, and positively ignore the rest of the world. I know that I will escape inside, and read myself into the book, with just the tiniest bit of desperation.
How do we readers ever get anything done?