Next year.

It's a cool Michigan Saturday. There's a home game in town, and we're staying away from the hustle and bustle. For this year. Next year, I imagine we'll walk into town, go to the farmer's market, eat some lunch in the middle of the crowds.

Next year, on a day like this, we can go the open fire house. Or get up and visit the great warehouse sale from at the cool kids clothes shop.

Or we'll head up to the pumpkin patch. By next year, Cricket will have stopped called pumpkins apples.

Next year, I'll have a friend over in the morning, and we'll sit on the back deck wrapped in sweaters over mugs of coffee. Maybe we'll have taken a brisk walk before that.

Next year, next year, next year. It's like a mantra for me these days.

Because we are we doing this year that makes us need to wait for next year? We're packing up our house. We're moving into the house I was terrified and excited to have. And now we have it. And I'm still terrified and excited. Next week is the move. So next year...