I owe my students a poem about my Phillipsburg. I thought it was the Fr. Quarter in my lovely, sad Nola. But that town is so bear-linked and right now I am all about the present-moment, the present in the moment and being happy with the bright-eyed feeling I am trying to learn to believe. The sandcastle-boots have been put away for the season and the fragile beginnings of a house near the sea and the little frail visits are forming their own summer memories. Maybe just maybe, this kid can stay happy with being happy long enough to shore it all up, resin or whatnot and brave it, prepare it, bring it in for the upcoming cold. After all, even Phillipsburg, as was pointed out to me, ends with the flash of red hair on a wall, lighting it all up with something like a brand of hope.
Tonight is wine and Wednesday wonder. (And sappy alliteration.)