It's the light, this time of year, that helps hold me together.
All summer, the sun crossed the solid blue sky high and mighty like a god, shining down hard and even and impassive.
The sun is lower now like it was in the spring,when the light brushed along the new buds and shoots with warm fingertips. Now the light trickles in under the yellowing leaves, touching gently what is about to die.
The light passes under the eaves and falls across the floor, splashes over the walls in Spanish coin patterns.
The light comes in, like an old friend checking up between long trips. Soon it will be gone again for months, pale as the old photograph you cherish, the one of him, the one of her, the paper crinkled from too long in your jeans pocket, from too long in your sweating palm, from too long.
Soon it will be time to tuck the garden into bed. I wanted to keep it going under glass, under snow, under that pale winter light. But I don't think that will happen this year. I had my hopes, but right now it just seems like too much. Maybe I'll feel differently tomorrow, or next week after my parents are back home, after the store's move is a solid thing underway.
There is a tightness in my chest despite the wine I drank tonight. There is a spring that won't uncoil, a pressure behind my eyes building for no particular reason.