Am in Venice. Counting hours until I get home! Even with two lousy nights of sleep behind me, an ambien onboard, earplugs, an eyeshade, and a very reclined seat in business class, I did not sleep. I’m a resolute stomach sleeper and in that position I felt disconcertingly like I was sliding downhill. So I rolled onto my side and within minutes my hip hurt. Flipping back and forth all across the atlantic, I think I probably slept a total of a couple of hours, all intermittent. Not feeling so hot now. And the day yawns ahead.

On the Paris-Venice flight I read a book called Comfort by Ann Hood. I had read reviews of this memoir and was interested – turns out it was way too close to home. A beautifully written meditation on grief, the book’s true story focuses on the sudden death of the author’s five and a half year old daughter, Grace. Her son is named Sam (Whit’s first name) and she lives in Providence, Rhode Island (the familiarity of the references there comes from the years of visiting Nana and Ba Eldredge, not from my occasional ride up to the 18th floor of 50 Kennedy Plaza). I flew the whole hour and ten minute flight with tears coursing down my cheeks. I don’t want to take away from the book’s achingly honest writing, the lovely way Ann describes swimming through grief, but it was a poor choice for me right now. I was already tired and emotional before opening it, and I’m more so now.

Well, it seems likely that 4 hours in a conference room this afternoon will turn me from weepy to catatonic.