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November 14, 2000

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I'm homesick. Over breakfast John tried to guess what it was I missed: stuff? routine? knowing where everything is? No, no, and no. It goes deeper than that, somehow. We played disc golf. The day was nice, the light crisp, the ground moist and squishy in places from recent rains. No one else walked the fairways but for a couple with multiple discs for every purpose in their shoulder bags. We had all-purpose drivers, blue for me, yellow for john, and on about the 13th hole of our second round he found another yellow one abandoned in tall grass. Drainage ditches, pipes for bridges, we birdied and bogied, staying within a couple of strokes of one another. Back in Seattle, it was Jed and James's birthdays, a drawing group in our apartment, cheesecake from Chrystya and Andi skated twice around Greenlake, her fingers cold by the end of it. I found a modicum of peace and purpose in preparing a thank-you note for Monte and Kristina. Sarah wrote of moving stuff into her new studio. Where does the time go, Andi asked over the phone. The eternal question. Where it's always gone, I answer now in a Texas kitchen, alone. Into the rough, into the rough. And all we can do is drop a new ball.