He is gone.  He is climbing Montana and he is a crackling phone call telling me about the sheep they hiked with and the way the rain fell sideways during dinner and of the peak they will try to summit tomorrow.  He is calling me a good woman when I tell him of the pounds of tri tip in the fridge for Sunday dinner and he is whooping and yelling a dinner invitation to Jim while the dog barks.

I am here.  I am waking early and buzzing around the house moving big pieces of furniture and sliding folded clothes into dresser drawers.  I am digging through his tool bag, following diagrams and pictures and I am doing a little jig across the black and white tile late at night when everything sits right and fits well and finally, there is a room that is one hundred percent finished.

And now the downstairs is dark and closed and the British channel is playing and already I have gone through a pile of string cheese and apple slices and a bowl of peanut butter.  Tomorrow is His day and I will run first, quick and hard, listening to those songs that make me fly inside. I will slip into church a little late and sit alone and I will smile over it. I will rush home and then back out.  Drop the meals off to the new parents and then back home again.  My whole family is coming over for Sunday dinner and we will all sit around in mismatched chairs on the patio.  The tea will be sunned.  The drinks will be mixed.  The grill, on.  There will not be enough table.  We will have to huddle up.  Stories will fly.  Dishes will pile.  Grandpa won't stay past seven thirty and then they will all leave.  And it will be me and him and his stories of the Montana mountains and we will maybe build a fire, stay outside late, and count our blessings on blessings on blessings.