When I wake from a dream and look down at my feet in hopes to see Rutger in the bedroom with me, he isn’t, which really isn’t a surprise at all.
I shower, dress in shorts, no shirt, no bootie socks, and find myself in the small study where I decide to write, or at least try to write. Suffering from a stomachache, I work on a new article for my editor, attempt to find words, fail miserably, and decide that a cup of coffee is in order. Tea will probably work better and be medicinal, but I’ve never enjoyed tea like I do coffee.
Once at the kitchen sink and hovering over a fresh cup of coffee from my Keurig, I hear a hammer pounding, a table saw cutting boards, a sander, and other carpentry tools. I try to ignore the head-pounding noise by studying the day: hot again, almost one hundred degr
