the long-awaited day arrived, matter-of-factly and without much fanfare. is it really today? i thought this morning while the tide slid against the connecticut shore.

by noon, i pulled into the driveway, suspicious almost. the beat-up yaris with rusted black steelies wasn’t parked beneath the dead elm. the totes were missing from the outdoor table. i shouldered a couple bags and pushed the door open.

nothing. the space was cavernous, empty, quiet. i hadn’t seen this much floor space since last november. no one greeted me when i entered, no one was snoozing on the couch. i was relieved, and a little giddy. i hardly knew what to do first. unpack? vacuum? dust? scrub the bathroom? everything all at once?

three and a half hours later, i had scraped enough grime and dust out of the rug and baseboards to feel satiated. vesper slept peacefully on the porch, his belly tilted to the sky. it hardly reached 80F and the soft breeze helped air out the couch cushions soaked in oxyclean. i lit incense and a candle. the bathroom came up gleaming, the new bath mat and shower liner installed. i made note of things to buy — groceries, spices, a shoe rack, scrubbing bubbles — and crashed on the couch knowing full well i didn’t have to share it with anybody.

tonight i will hold a ritual, and lock the door firmly against the world.