Today is an in-between day, an unpolished gap between seasons. It is a day of change, of cleaning, and discarding, and thinking ahead to the new rules which will govern our lives through the winter.
Washing is idle on the lines, shifting stiffly in the occasional airs. A crack of light on the horizon reminds me of sunshine, but the memory lacks warmth, dulled by the grey uniformity of this gap between seasons.
Today did not happen. It is my first holiday day in a long time, and the wind tells me that when I am done, time will close up either side of today. Anything done today will be undone. If I paint red, when I wake up tomorrow it will be white again. If I go travelling, I will wake up at home. If I build something, it will take a life of its own and vanish.
So instead, I take today as a holiday, and wonder what other people will fit into this gap in time.
