After I came back from taking Alison to work this morning, I sat down to check the headlines and do some reading. And then I thought that gee, my eyes were tired and it felt so good when they closed. So, I set aside the computer, left my book on the table and snuggled down under an afghan. I didn’t sleep, but it felt so good just to rest there and let nature take its course. As it turned out, I did not drift off to sleep, but listened to the birds and the silence in the house.

I knew sounds would come soon enough; it has been a long time since I have been alone in a house. I think the time I spent in Pacific Beach qualifies only in the sense that when Der Bingle’s friend was at work, I just had myself to account for. But always in my mind was the draw of the beach and just the feel of getting out and being in Southern California.

Now, Georgia was different. He would leave and I would wander through the rooms – once I ate a can of green beans and a can of spinach, because he was on a low vitamin K diet and they were just in the pantry, ignored with little hurt vegetable feelings. I won’t say that I felt all that intestinally great after having consumed them, but it was a one-time thing. There was no place really calling to me and the apartment is nice, with cathedral ceilings and lots of fans, many windows of daylight and comfy leather sofas and chairs . . . and Turner Classic Movies and a nice porch. Lots of books – internet service – a jigsaw puzzle on the coffee table in the sunroom. Sodas in the refrigerator and peanut butter in the cabinet.

But back to here, back to this morning. The first hint of alien life was a soft, “Grandma?” from the french doors. I looked up and there was Miss Sleepy Eyes Two slumped in the wicker chair, so I invited her to take the other end of the long sofa . . . and she did. Sydney settled on the floor beside us and we rested for quite a little while. Sunday morning, soft and gentle.