I am writing outside, on our little bench. Safiya is playing with leaves she has "trimmed" from our forsythia, giving them voices and sliding them down a makeshift cardboard slide beside me. Today is a blessed continuation of the rare weather we've been enjoying here. The air is warm, so warm, yet the patio stones are cool. The birds are chattering away, gossiping in the shimmering leaves, but the leaves are golden and russet, no longer green. The day starts with a warming tea yet is punctuated by picnics and lemonade. And, as I write, the whistle of the train that was muted by the full trees in summer now comes crystal clear through the fall air.
A crystal autumn day, a full 13 degrees Celsius warmer than the usual. So much for scarves and slippers, that thought accented by Safiya's bare feet by my side. Yesterday we went with Mr. S. to his usual Sunday afternoon soccer in the park, and we just were, in the sun, for hours.
She really didn't need the flannel shirt, and we shed our socks soon after our arrival. It's hard for me not to dwell on the possible reasons for such unseasonal warmth, but I'm starting to learn to do what I can and otherwise live in the moment. This is difficult, as I am a born worrier.
But as I look around, I realise that on a day such as this dwelling in the dark would be sacrilegious.
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