There's nothing much between now and Thanksgiving--which I'll be spending, I think, in New Orleans, because why not--except work and school and cooking for one, so I'm trying to pack on good ideas and fond memories like bears in salmon season or layers of sweaters in the arctic. Filling refrigerators with balloons and throwing pebbles in the water and floating in the rain on Lake Union. I know these long weeks and these quiet empty evenings, and I know better than to think that they might not come around again. Just about everything is seasonal somehow. So I'm preparing, with my mustard cardigan and space umbrella and bag full of books. For whatever happens next.