This morning fog wraps itself around the neighborhood. Leaves cluster in waning stages of chlorophyll-fullness, green to orange to gold. Moisture, slightly frozen, obscures windshields.

I wish to write about Benjamin Franklin and what I’ve learned from his writings, but I need to wash the dog and clean the bathroom and wash the dog’s blankets and dust and vacuum. Because if I don’t do these things I will not live up to my standards.

I have not been a good mother. Or wife. Or daughter. Or sister. Or friend. Or steward of the ecosystem.

Yet, somehow, my failure to improve the planet hasn’t caused its implosion so far. People are kind to me. Way too kind. They do not treat me as I deserve.

And I’m not complaining.