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I'm back-blipping the last week or so of photographs and using my diary to figure out how I felt, and why, and when. I wrote this early Saturday morning, when the house was still asleep:

Chloe and I woke this morning at 7 on the button, together. She must have gone back to sleep, but I lay there until just before 8 with this soft heaviness inside me. It felt like someone had put my heart inside a box and everytime it beat it stretched the limits of that box, as if it wanted to beat harder or faster or just more.
I came downstairs and opened all the curtains, Pippin bouncing at my heels. It really is autumn now, because the leaves on the tree a few doors down are wrinkled and crisp like twice-baked potatoes and there was frost on the grass. I wanted to buy new school shoes and make apple pie and rub pencil shavings between my fingers, like in that song we sang every September in primary school... When I looked out on the back garden there was frost.
Pippin is warm against my leg, and though he upset a glass of water trying to get up onto the sofa I still felt such a swell of love for him that I thought I would drown. There's some kind of infinity in having a dog snort and breathe and share their warmth with you. As I write this, he has just snuggled in further.
All is calm. All is bright.