These fragments I have shored against my ruins. ― T.S. Eliot
I wake up to the sun, the bright and peaceful Autumn sun. I mean to spend the morning in bed, reading an entire book, but I lack follow-through. I walk around the outside of our house in my nightie instead. The garden is resting and quiet, the small amount of colour that remains is held like treasure. Nathan mows the lawns, keeping a promise he has made all week; the lawnmower is old and difficult and dying and he struggles to keep it breathing. A neighbour takes pity on all of us and offers to fix it for free, assuming it can be fixed (it can't). My girls stay in their rooms, and always, always, a vague sense of nagging guilt whispers in my ear. They should be out in this sunshine. They should be doing things.
Lunch is leftover soup and ham and cheese pastries, rich and salty and covered in bubbling fat. It's hard to eat as many as I feel I should want to. I drag the entire family out to look at paint colours - choose one each, I tell them, and we'll paint a pot for planting our spring bulbs in. They stand around silently, not liking anything on offer, we give up and go home. We stop off for cake at the bakery, it isn't enough to sweeten my mood. Warren goes looking for a new mower, I crochet, the sun loses itself momentarily in the face of the rain.
We carry on.