Guess what I did to chill?

My son is closing out the second-to-last semester of his college career.



I tremble when I write that.



Papers have kept him up until 6:45 AM.  Finals are filling his days.  He'll exit the final final at the final hour — 7:30 Friday night — and then we'll bring him home.



Yesterday afternoon he called us in a snatch of stolen time.  "Guess what I just did to chill?" he asked.  I had many possible answers; I kept them to myself.  When we said we didn't know, couldn't possibly guess, he answered like this:  "I wrote.  I wrote what I wanted to write.  A new installation in my mystery series.  Can't wait to read it to you when I get home."



You know how I've always said that writing, for me, is medicinal?  I am sitting here feeling just a mighty bit of glad that I passed that part of my weird genetics on.