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Here I am in southern California, where the weather is warm and light. This afternoon I sat for a while on the steps of A.'s mother's house, near her scented geraniums, looking out over the valley, while A. and his brother and sister went through old boxes in the garage. The sunlight was thin and golden, dappled with the shadows of unfamiliar trees. A.'s sister says she misses East Coast green, a real green: the greenery here is either dark or sun-bleached, and all the plants look like succulents, holding on to what water there is. In the evenings it gets cold and the fog rolls in.
I think in life, everyone loves everything more than they let on, and maybe we're also more afraid than we let on. I'm proud at how many times a day I say 'I love you.' But I think maybe I don't fight enough. I think we should always be telling each other our feelings, all the time. We ought to be always asking each other the hardest questions and answering them as hard as we can.
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