The days with Myron home are rare and precious. Humidity still blankets the city, but we took a walk in the dark, listening to the hum of bugs and a thousand air conditioners and cars blowing past on Hazeldean.
The to-do list grows longer, and then shorter, and then longer again. A drumbeat below everything reminds me of the date, points out every cute house in our hoped-for neighborhood that gets sold before we get a chance to make an offer, wonders when things will be all done here. When I get overwhelmed, I remember this: It only feels like pressure.