Last night, I started editing Draft #5 of my new book. It felt like coming home.

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This weekend is the Palm Sunday service. I’m thinking seriously about staying home and watching the livestream, because I don’t like how they begin by going outside and marching through the neighborhood, waving palms and singing. I know it’s supposed to be symbolic and powerful, but when I did it a few years ago, I felt conspicuous and self-conscious. If I lived in one of the apartment buildings overlooking the sidewalk in front of the church, I’d wonder why those idiots were traipsing around underneath my window.

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Next week, Olivia will turn eighteen. It feels so unreal. I remember her as a kitten who barely fit in my hand. Now, she’s going to be old enough that if she were human, she could vote.

This must be how parents of human children feel when their offspring drive away and it doesn’t make any sense because just this morning they needed help tying their shoes.

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