I am sitting on the porch at my mother’s house in Maine, watching my children, brother and sister-in-law traverse the rocks that line the shore.

I have been awake since 6 am, when I brought a cup of coffee to bed and started working because the dog was pacing the floorboards incessantly, perhaps worried about J, who had left to return to Connecticut at a very early hour. She doesn’t like it when things go differently than they normally do. I coaxed her into bed (don’t tell my husband!) where she nestled her soft head into the crook between my hip and arm as I typed emails, then fell into a intensely deep sleep, comforted for the moment.

She’s now down on the rocks with the rest of the crew, barking because no one is throwing a stick she's found. It is for throwing, is what she is trying to impart.

My brother and sister-in-law’s beloved dog, Lucy, died two days ago after a very long and active life, just as they were arriving for vacation. One last trip up to Maine, she seemed to decide. She was present for so many meaningful moments in all of our lives that it feels like the end of some kind of era, which I suppose it is, and I think dogs do this job so very well - mark eras.

The sky is overcast and there is a loud bird singing an extended, loud song. My son probably knows what the bird is, and if it is ordinary or interesting.

It feels a bit too uncertain to get excited about fall, like I normally do at this time of year,, and I think we are all more weary than we used to be of things going differently than they normally do.

The wind is rustling sparse pine tree branches, and it is remarkably quiet except for the occasional interruption of the dog barking - the STICK! - and the kids laughing and the sound of my typing this little missive, to mark the morning; to serve, even in its mundanity, as a bridge between one feeling and the next.