March 6, 2026

Morning by the river. T was at the café, running in half a minute down the list of his recent triumphs, his new grandchild, how his kids have moved back to town, how his next novel comes out in a few months. He introduced me to his wife, pretty much (physically) a female version of himself. Our last contact was when he failed, or refused, to produce a blurb for Beautiful Necklaces on the day it was due, after assuring me nothing would please him more. “I just can’t” said his plaintive email. Whether he ran out of time or hated the book I never asked. Clearly he’s over it. I’m not.

Held off gardening until dusk, when I filled the concrete Grecian urns with violas.