Some insects must be pinned through the middle, attached to velvet with Latin names scrawled on paper, wings flutter no more but children will learn.
The phone rings. It does.
I managed to get the trash out, the street is on fire with wet leaves, it is completely amazing, I say that every year. I love how it always surprises me, I surprise myself, I say to my sister out of nowhere, “If I move to Mexico I have to make sure to come home in the fall. I would die without this weather.”
There is a cat named Macy Gray, long overdue in the telling of Macy Gray. In late August someone dropped her off and she narrowly avoided being eaten by the neighbor’s gigantic black dog. She is the one thing left linking us, and some stray glasses, a digital scale, I don’t know what else, other things though.
I should go snap a picture of her on the front porch — tomorrow— ; I’m in my underwear, ready for bed, it’s late, I’ve been working all day, had to catch up from taking Saturday off, still didn’t get everything done. Never do, and then it’s Christmas.
It’s not so sudden that I’ve grown provencial, but I have grown unnaturally attached lately to sameness, the curve of the road, the exact understanding of winter, the eventuality of spring — if we’re lucky; — when insects come inside and shake the rain off their wings.