It has already rained hard this morning. My idea of washing the sheets for John’s arrival is gone. The point was for them to line dry, gathering the smells of sun and wind and newly minted oxygen. I will drive to Bozeman this afternoon and busy myself in town while his plane crosses three states and two mountain ranges. “Bring him safe me,” will breeze across my tongue with every breath in barely audible whispers until I see his face.