It's the equinox. Autumnal--and yet the world around me has been dying for a long time. The grasses are brown. The garden has already seen its best days. Seed pods on everything--a sign of new life, next year's life, but right now it just looks desiccated, undone.
I pour myself a glass of wine and go back to the porch. The weight of this season presses my chest for what might be forever. I sound like a melodrama, without a villain, no one in a black hat to hiss at.
Far away, the phone jangles. Probably Becky. I think she's tired of coming over here to chat. I think she's tired of me. Or I depress her. Maybe I'm the villain. Hissssssss.
As heavy as Sisyphus's stone, I get up to answer the ringing.