They left on a Tuesday. The suitcases said so before anyone did.

I have an instinctive, unexplained desire to visit New York City. I know this about myself. I have always known it. What I had not accounted for was the possibility that New York City might receive my people without me — that the arrangements would proceed in that direction while I remained in Bend, in the studio, monitoring a cookie jar that no one is currently operating.

The house is the same house. The hardwood floors are where they were. The patch of morning sun is crossing the family room right now, predictable as ever, landing where it always lands, and I am in it. 07:00. 17°C and clear. The ponderosas are doing their thing in the yard. The bird feeder is occupied. The squirrel has not tested the perimeter today, which suggests it has read the room and understands that management has temporarily consolidated.

Gus is asleep on the studio sofa. He has been asleep on the studio sofa since approximately last Tuesday. His approach to their absence is, characteristically, an extended horizontal one. Mine is more administrative. I have confirmed the location of both cookie jars. I have identified all exits. I have slept on the back of the sofa each night and watched every entrance — the mud room, the family room, the front — not because I am worried, but because someone has to.

There is a person here. A good person, responsible and attentive, who feeds us and provides the walks and has not yet made a single error of consequence. Breakfast has been on time. The water bowl is clean. Frozen Bone Friday is tonight, and I have reason to believe the protocol will be honored. The situation, objectively, is fine.

I am simply noting its fineness with great frequency.

We walked this morning — the river path, the cool of it, the light still low over the Cascades and everything smelling of the rain that came through on Monday. The trails are full now, late summer crowds, everyone slightly aware that the days are shortening whether they admit it or not. Daylight saving ends soon. I have opinions about this that I will deliver at the appropriate hour, which is whenever it inconveniences someone.

Gus walked with his nose six inches off the ground the entire time. I walked with my nose six inches off the ground and also my head up, watching, cataloging, making sure. Old habits.

They are in New York, presumably. Possibly across the river from the funny uncle with the apartment he rarely wants to leave. I hope they are eating well. I hope someone is watching the cookie situation on that end.

The house holds their shape in the afternoon light. The desk in the studio is exactly where it should be. The donut beds are stacked in the bedroom, and last night I slept there — warm, circular, floating slightly — and thought about nothing in particular for a very long time.

They will come back. They always do. The house knows this. I know this.

I simply prefer to know it with someone in the room.

~P.W.