Well. We really, officially live here now. I know this because in my wallet there is a peach state driver's license, which I carried with me this past week, when I drove up to the big city to retrieve some Midwesterners from the airport.
Then it was time for the beach, and saltwater, and sand in our beer; for drinking in a tiny bar where we were declared "regulars" by the third round and watched folks bring in their dogs; for a next-day indoor picnic of pizza rolls and Captain Ron; for Carolina-style barbeque and catfish; for a hot summer storm and a brief power outage; for driving back up to Atlanta and the aquarium and pizza at Fellini's and last-night beers with my brother.
Then I put them back on their plane and drove back down home and went to conquer my new office, which required the pushing of furniture and the hanging of virus pictures courtesy of a new friend and the hanging of another friend's broadside of this poem.
This life is starting to find its shape. I have grown accustomed to the sound of the dishwasher, the clunk and hiss of the icemaker, the thunk of the air conditioning kicking on. In the evening, as the heat is subsiding, I sweep the patio and water the herbs, and the dog sniffs at where the lizards have been running. And when I wake up in the morning, I remember where I am.
Things are breaking themselves in.
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