I am wrapping up and putting away lights and greenery, seeing bare walls once again, and tasting the onion quiche-lets I made this morning while still remembering with a wistful mental glance the Yale professor from Connecticut I watched online this morning as he talked, his crisp shirt still marked with a crease on one side from being in a new wrapper, of poetry, publishing and syllabi.
And I wondered why it was that instead of being one of the listening, bobbing heads I could barely see in front of the camera, as he spoke of Yates, Hughes, and Frost, I was making quiche-lets, and boxing up Christmas in Sunny California.
This is where I live. This is what I do.
But I still wonder.
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