November 25, 2016

Thanksgiving in Atlanta. I’d driven an hour and a half before the sun came up. On the way back I saw this was a mistake, for the roadsides were aflame with autumn, the apotheosis of brown: golden brown to scarlet brown and all places in between upon the trees and forests. All well and most well in Alpharetta. The limits of my energy were reached even by the drive, so I spent most of my time trying not to collapse in a corner. Not good company, I think. Talked to David’s girlfriend on the phone. Talked to Aunt Barbara, who is the last connection to Things As They Were, and yet all we talked about was Thanksgiving. Drove home when the house was either asleep or already gone to work. The lakes you pass on the road have fallen by twenty feet, their banks wide and brown and alarming. Much smashed wildlife on the bridges. Mickey is getting a hurricane in Costa Rica. We can’t get a cloud.