Already missing time

For seven days it was mine:  time.  I woke (meaning I slept!), I read, I wrote, I cooked, I took long walks with my son, I watched movies with my husband, I finessed my syllabus for Penn, I saw and talked to friends.  It was otherworldly—a strange, delirious slow—and inside that time I came upon an understanding of story that I had not had before, found a way to write a novel that has eluded me for years:  one thing at a time, and don't forget the poems, and remember the canal, remember the boy, K, remember the dancer.  16,000 words into this new novel, and I would give anything for another week, or two, of time, another 16,000 words.

But the e-mails come in.  Responsibilities.