Wrong, again

The Mayan day planner stopped dead in its tracks today after 5125 years of painstaking accuracy.  Dire predictions to the contrary, we seem to be going on just fine. Like the 2012 we have on the fridge, calendars come to an end and the world still spins. As it will when we're long gone.

But if Thursday had been our last day, it would have been a pretty good one.  John and I went downtown to the Seattle art museum, ate a nice lunch at PF Chang's, messed around Macy's and kitchen stores, elbowed through the Pike Place Market and shared a cup of the best dark hot chocolate on Earth at Fran's.

Here's today's poem from The Writer's Almanac:

Leaning In

Sometimes, in the middle of a crowded store on a Saturday
afternoon, my husband will rest his hand
on my neck, or on the soft flesh belted at my waist,
and pull me to him. I understand

his question: Why are we so fortunate
when all around us, friends are falling prey
to divorce and illness? It seems intemperate
to celebrate in a more conspicuous way

so we just stand there, leaning in
to one another, until that moment
of sheer blessedness dissolves and our skin,
which has been touching, cools and relents,

settling back into our separate skeletons
as we head toward 
Housewares to resume our errands.

by, Ellen Sue Thompson