The week will be hot, in the 80’s to start the week then the 70’s at the end of the week. The nights will be in the 60’s, a lovely relief. I’m think air conditioning.

I keep dropping things, hitting things with my head and knees, tripping over small things and big things. Tripping doesn’t discriminate. My dogs place themselves exactly where I need to go. I walk so cautiously you’d think there were land mines.

Last night, a memory popped into my head prompted by a scene in a movie, a scene of Greek dancers in traditional clothing. All of a sudden I remembered a night in Portugal. My parents and I heard music coming from the top floor of a small hotel where we were staying for the night. Curiosity took over and we went upstairs. We stood outside the door watching dancers celebrating in movement. It was a wedding reception. A few people noticed us and invited us to join them. We did, and we danced and ate and chattered with the people we had never seen before and would never see again, but we felt a companionship that night. We belonged.

When I was a kid, I never gave much thought to life, far too philosophical for a ten year old. Thinking about lunch was about as far into life as I got. That sounds simple but was far more complex than you’d imagine. What’s in the fridge? What if nothing is in the fridge? Is there marshmallow? That disappeared quickly. Peanut butter seldom did. Are there cookies? What if there are no cookies? That question was as close to philosophical as I ever got. Cookies were important in my world.

I always had wishes and dreams. Some wishes were as simple as my Christmas lists. I methodically added the item numbers from the Sears catalogue so they’d be no confusion. I wanted the elves to get it right. You all know I was in the sixth grade when I promised myself I’d travel the world. It was a personal promise I didn’t share. That promise has stayed with me the whole of my life. It is my only enduring promise.

The morning is dreary, but the sort of dreariness chased away by a few lit lamps. I always feel a sense of comfort from the lights.

Today I have no to do list. I have done the last few days. I have a back ache and a groaning body from the lifting and moving. Today being Sunday is a day of rest actually and metaphorically.

My dance card this week is uke heavy. Besides the usual practice and lesson I have three concerts. They begin the summer of concerts.

Yesterday I switched from winter to summer. I replaced the door storms with screens. It was a project. The storms were so heavy I couldn’t easily lift them so I catty-corner moved them side to side. I held my breath for so long going down the cellar stairs with them I skirted passing out. I couldn’t reach the top of the storms to loosen the screws so I grabbed my step ladder, also heavy, also needing to be moved side to side. The screens went in easily. Last night I could feel the breeze from the back door.

My lack of strength was evident when I moved the glass to the cellar yesterday. I used to be able to carry 50 pounds of cat litter into the house and up the stairs. Now, I strain. Now I am old. People usually contradict me when I say that, and I look at them quizzingly. I will be 78 in August. The bloom has long been off the rose.

When I was a kid, we lived in a duplex in the project. It was always called the project. For us it was just a neighborhood. I remember when my friend from New Jersey came with me to my hometown. I gave her a tour including a stop at the project. She couldn’t believe we called it a project. She said she expected huge brick buildings with apartments and some clothes lines crisscrossing concrete yards in the back. We had a few brick buildings I explained, but they were town buildings and banks. This was our project.