the witching hour

It’s not really the witching hour as I’m writing this — although can I really say that definitively about something from folklore? Maybe this is the witching hour, or maybe it will be when you read this.

The phrase sprung to my mind a few minutes ago when I realized the day was almost over and I had yet to write a newsletter. I almost decided not to send a newsletter at all — to let that item on my to-do list go unchecked and to keep reading North Woods by Daniel Mason, which is enthralling and which I wouldn’t describe as not witchy. But I heard my brother Brady’s voice from a few Sundays ago, encouraging me to “be disciplined” and write my newsletter even when I was on vacation.

I’m not on vacation now; in fact, I’m glad of the opposite: that I’m at home. This spring has been filled with so much travel, and I’m grateful for a small break from it. (Even today, we drove to Elizabethtown and back to see The Mandalorian and Grogu with several members of my family. You can imagine how much we’ve been traveling when that feels like not traveling.)

Loui is snoring beside me, and I really do want to get back to reading, so I think I’ll close with some of the things I loved this week: Kissing my sister on the forehead. A collection of ampersands at the American Sign Museum in Cincinnati. The phrase “a backbone of flowers” in the first delivery from a snail mail club I signed up for. The taste of fresh fettuccine at a celebratory dinner with Loui. When Grogu chose to return to the Mandalorian (a years-old spoiler at this point). Giving the cats some new toys, including a shrimp because Loui loves shrimp. Remembering I had Thin Mints in the freezer. Accidentally wearing the same outfit as my dad. That my book matches my bedspread. Knowing I can sleep in because of the holiday.