It wasn't the kind of weekend you write about. Everything felt like something close, something private, and quiet. Nascent. Home mostly, the Olympics, a new houseplant, blankets on the couch, a certain kind of housewarming consisting mostly of using dishes, then cleaning them, getting ready to do it again. Everything felt made for sustenance, for comfort and connection. It was like putting down roots in a place I always meant to live. It worked. Things took hold, and I felt so attached, and fed. I have so much. In bed one night, I couldn't sleep from the thought of all of it. I lay there thinking about what it was like. A heart filled with helium and feathers, sparkling.