Dear Diary,

I rise early as I do most mornings, around 6 o’clock. Awake before the alarm, I let the dogs out. It is Tuesday. Or maybe Wednesday. I pad to the kitchen and turn on the espresso machine. I wash my hands, eat an orange and toss the peels into the compost bucket. I grind some coffee beans, fill the portofilter and brew my first cup of espresso. The birds swarm the feeder that hangs from the plum tree. They are emptying it out daily. I am worried soon they will be too fat to fly.

I throw on a pair of sweats, the same pair I wore yesterday and possibly the day before. I brush my teeth and wash my face. I don’t remember if I did it yesterday. I pop in my contact lenses so I can see my students when we log in to class 15 minutes later. I peer cautiously into the mirror. Grey roots. I look like the girlfriend of Pepe Le Pew.

128 faces do not fit on one Zoom screen. I scroll through the images and say hello. They are in their pajamas, On their beds. In their backyards or sitting in a closet. They come with coffee, tea and caffeinated soda. One student just had a baby boy. We ooh and ahh. He is tiny. Just 5 pounds. Another one is sick. Strep throat, she says. An older student is holed up in her garage., hiding from her teenage son. Dogs bark. Children scream. It feels chaotic and I wonder how I can give them any assignments. It all seems like too much.

An hour later I do it all again.

The dogs spend the day sleeping. On the couch. The overstuffed chair. My son’s bed. They wake up long enough to howl at the neighbor or the vacuum or nothing at all. Gracie makes wierd noises when she sleeps. Her legs twitch and her body jerks. Pupperdoo snores loudly.

Soon it is time for dinner. I pour myself a glass of wine. I make a quiche or soup or chicken ala something. I’m so sick of chicken. I pour another glass of wine. We binge watch The Good Place.

By 8:45 I fall asleep on the couch. I wake up just in time to see the last five minutes of the episode. “What did I miss?” I ask my husband. He just rolls his eyes. I drag myself to bed.

When I was on the Camino I met an Irishman named Conor who used the word “grand” as a descriptor, as in “Isn’t it grand?” or “That’s just grand” or “I’m feeling “grand.” He always said it with a wink and a nod, a big smile and a deep Irish chuckle. One day I asked him what it meant.

“Well, it means anything you want it to mean,” he said. “It can mean anything from good to shite, it’s up to you.”

Today was “grand”. Tomorrow I get to do it all again.