You Are My Only: There, breathing

Sometimes the only way to finish writing a book is to read a book you haven't written, and this weekend I distanced myself from You Are My Only by reading By Nightfall, the new Michael Cunningham novel.  Between reading, I went off to Skippack.  I took a walk.  I took my big camera out and found my way to the back side of an old cottage at the Willows, where I discovered this tank, its clock forever corroded by time.

It was, all of it, a restoration.  I returned to my own novel in the middle of last night and read it through once more, adding, subtracting, but not by much. 

It is there.  It is whole now.  I can breathe.