02 April 2012
Isn't it strange how summer and winter are the destinations and autumn and spring are the journeys. Is it a sign of aging that I now prefer the journey to the arrival?
The season has turned. Despite the glorious weather there is a moment, in the early evening, or in the morning, when the air cools and you know autumn is here.
The last of anything is special. The last tomato from the vine, the last of the sun on my back.
We ate tuna and rice on the lawn. I made meringues with left-over egg whites and we each had three. Grace made a computer workstation with 'sculpture stones' underneath. Nina made 'Hello'. She tried to weave leaves for the 'e' but ended up writing it. Ruby scooted round and round the deck. Lily came and kissed my hand.
'Lou welcome mama'.
I lay on the blanket I bought in Grenada a million years ago when I learned flamenco and had no children and tried to hold on to it all.