The hurricanes have ended. I emerge, cautiously, and inspect my apartment for damage.
There is a thick layer of dust on all surfaces. Underneath that, an even thicker layer of cat hair. Underneath that, mountainous drifts of paper, frosted with gray cigarette ash.
I haven’t the faintest idea where I put the hydro bill, which is almost certainly past due, or my health card. It may take an archaeological dig to find them. Also, I wonder when the kitchen faucet started leaking?
Yes, there are repairs to be done, but the basic structure is sound.
I’ll start with a garbage bag and a dustpan, then set to writing the dissertation I’m meant to write. The one that, in some sense, I’ve been writing all along. The one about the quiet city.
I can do this. I will do this.