The birth of cold

There is a characteristic chill in the air - the sort I normally expect to begin in October. Out in the sun, the heat is almost intolerable. In the shade, the cold burns the skin. I am home.

Objects appear more defined, as if the lower temperature has sharpened the edges of things. Nature is adventurous with her palette. During the day, the sky is impossibly blue. At dusk, the sunset is an opera of bold fuchsia tones. The hills are green carpets with bright yellow dots: the sunflowers are in bloom. We are lucky to even have them this year. They, like the soul of this City, are disappearing.

Yesterday, I made spaghetti for lunch. It was quiet, and the kitchen was glowing with the yellow light of the afternoon. If I spend enough time cooking, I stop thinking. All I feel is the heat of the stove and the knife handle as I chop garlic. The faint sizzling of sautéing onions is the most wonderful sound. I miss my mother.

Last night, I fell asleep under three blankets. I spun a cheetah 360 degrees in the air by its tail, threw it at a horde of zombies chasing me, and ran for all I was worth. Then I woke up. A cocoon of heat cultivates eventful REM.

Rako spent the morning under the sun so when I touched him his fur was warm. His nose was cold, though. My cheeks were duly informed.

Once I have established warmth, it is difficult to get up. This does not bode well for household chores. Or personal hygiene. I doubt that clean hair is more important than warm toes.