My Bat is a Pen

My contract came yesterday afternoon. I was cleaning up the kitchen and my husband walked in the front door and said my name. It must have been the way he said it combined with the fact that I had been wishing my contract would come, before the end of August, as promised by Covenant seven weeks ago. But who's counting?
Anyway, he only said, "Krista."
And I said, pulling in my breath, "It came."
He walked into the kitchen and held out the fat envelope with a postage due notice wrapped around it with a rubberband. "You owe the postal service forty-four cents."
I didn't care.
Dinner was late. And it was fish sticks.
Because I read and re-read and got on Twitter, and a friend said, "Take a deep breath before you sign anything." And others sent their congratulations. I posted on Facebook. Lots of "likes". After a couple emails with another friend allaying my concerns, or rather my naivete, I went to bed knowing I would sign my contract in the morning, and it would be marvelous. Gratitude hushed me to sleep.

Now, here I am, at my desk in my laundry room, listening to the first birds of morning, with the contract folded up and squashed firmly inside the almost too small return envelope, bearing my signature and initials where required.
As I signed, I thought of the movie Signs, and the part where the wife is dying after her car wreck. She says, fading, "Tell Morgan to swing away."

That's what I'm doing.
Swing away, Krista. Swing away.

And make something really yummy for breakfast.