Seven Quarts

The sky was merely grey today, not a lurid bruise, just thick and unpleasant. No sun at all. We stayed in again. Played the piano, canned a flat of tomatoes from yesterday’s market. Our own harvest got ruined in the heat wave. Red belongs on tomatoes, not in the sky. They say the air is safe because the debris is so high up, held there by the marine layer, but it smells smoky to me at times, and it looks so unhealthy. I’m not going out there.

I’m just happy to have the piano right now. It’s very satisfying to work out a song and feel it in my heart. It fills me up in a remarkable way, and I think it’s helping to heal some of the terrible grieving I feel for everything that’s gone bad. The songs I choose are full of longing and sadness and exquisite notes. And they are slow, because I can only play slow things.


Nothing is ever going to be the same, but we’re alive and smart and young and rich and beautiful so all is well.