There is the cheerful running back and forth, seeing this person and that, that fills most days. And I get to be a guest, over and over- fed, offered coffee. I fall asleep to the loose-banjo croak of the green frog and wake up to the sun on the lake; it’s not my own bed I look forward to, but my own kitchen. And it’s not for the things I eat. It’s for the turning a scoop from the tub of masa in to a stack of warm tortillas, the going to the market, bringing something home, and turning it into supper.
At the beginning of our stay, N. said he was a creator, only satisfied to be making something. And I said aren’t we all? But of course we aren’t. We talked about the other things people were, the non-creator things, but I don’t remember. I’m often wishing I had written something down.
For now Reed sits across from me working on his book (subject: Pokemon) while I work on mine, and I think one of the girls just woke up. It will be another good day. And tomorrow will be good, and the next day. We all need a break sometimes, especially a good long one. And then Adam will pick us up at the airport and ask if I am tired and if I want to get a pizza for dinner. And I will say no.