I am living this month alone in this house. The solitude is pregnant:
Doors and Door-knobs and Curtains and Tables have silently come alive
in it and have taken on identities like those of tamed wild beasts.
I do housework--I dust window-sills and water flowers. I gather up
newspapers and brush the floors with a dust-mop. I wash my dishes. I
cook my breakfasts. I look out of windows. I linger at screen-doors.