The bay heaves and surges, flexes its muscles but never breaks into waves; the clouds filter the evening’s light whitely, greyly, into the fading hills. I look out the window at the smudged harbour, tired from yoga, tired from my week. Looking forward to dinner and bickies and bed. Mist gauzes over the open mouth of the city, pushing down into autumn, and the bus climbs and climbs, carrying me with it.
It’s getting darker earlier now, now that the tiny summer is passing. There were only a few sundress days this year, only a few days of pinned-up hair and sweaty cool drinks. Here it comes, here comes the winter, as I open the front door and drop my bags on the kitchen bench. Not quite yet, not quite now, but the rain shatters down as I collapse on the couch, close the window against the wind. I think of blankets and wool jumpers, about getting in the new supply of wood. I wonder how I will stay warm this year, how I will stop from sinking down under the barely-noticeable weight of the mist and the rain and the clouds. There are my books, stacked up neatly by my bed. There are my pictures on the wall, there are the birds silent in the trees, there are the flowers dripping in the dark. There are my friends, there is my city. Enough to hold me up, this winter, if I’m lucky and strong and good. Why wouldn’t they? Why wouldn’t I? Be enough, I think, putting the kettle on. Enough, enough, enough.
I zip up my hoodie and drink my tea, look out into the soft wet night. Summer is almost over, washing out with the barely restrained swells, carrying me with it.