Amidst a steady downpour we drove to Tillamook. Between raindrops and teardrops I feel about as damp as a cheese. The middle skylight also  drips steady. It drives directly down, battering a small towel. One way to clean the floor. I am comforted by a big cup of tea and a long chat with my sister. Although hers is a very heavy setback, she at least sees the bright side—she will be able to do a lot of writing.  I am anxious to see her new manuscript—I’ve been elated by the poems I’ve seen as it develops.

For now, I pass the phone to Jake. He reads her his new manuscript, about skiing with his friends at Alyeska. In between sentences and laughter he looks at me imploringly. Will she be okay? I picture her two and half year old son, trying to imagine what is going on. Jake passes the phone back to me. Where I’ve scratched off the purple tint on the windows and the fog isn’t too thick I have been studying blurred bits of the landscape.  The most amazing maroon bogs dot the roadside--the kinds I’ve of dreamed about, invented. Baroque ditches, stitched with reeds, laced with emerald trees and drifting golden leaves. In these wine waters, Ophelia could float peacefully. Sadness cedes to beauty.