Turning East

Nighttime lingers here on the western edge of Eastern Daylight Time. It is dark until 8. Great light for a writer, at least this one, who finds the dim, still, early morning hours the best ones for creative pursuits. Add the mournful whistle of a freight train — which sounds here once an hour or more — and the picture is complete.

So I pause for a moment before turning east and moving on. I pause in this house I know and love so well. Pause with the boxes of Mom's clothes and papers that I'm taking back to Virginia. Pause with the solemnity of what I've been doing, what I must continue to do.

Morning email brings messages from friends, words of support and love. How lucky I am to have them. How could I do this without them?