Late August

I have a bit of a hangover this morning from a fancy cocktail and one glass of wine that I drank last night. My stomach is queasy but it could just as well be the tiny earthquakes that have apparently been clustering over the last few days, the rents in the earth altering the air, balance. The sky is a brilliant blue and the bougainvillea is pink. The sycamore leaves are brown and dry, rustling and waiting to drop. The air is hot but the light is turning golden, Los Angeles light in late summer that has no comparison and points to fall, a subtle fall to be sure but it will as soon come as the high heat of September and Santa Ana winds. When I dropped her off at school, I realized that the increase in medicine had not only made Sophie drowsy but lessened her big seizures, and such is the weariness deep inside me that the tears that pricked at my eyes were ones of gratitude for respite and resignation for that dull veil. I will balance these two, the pink and the brown, the heat and the hint of fall, the veil and the relief.