In the morning i drank coffee, black from a blue mug, and stood at the back door in the eastern light. Birdsong peppered the flowering shrubs. There was no sound of cars in the street.
In a beach chair in the yard, at noon, i dozed under the whispering cabbage palm papering the ground with dead leaves, and two sparrows fluttered down to sit at my feet.
In the afternoon i walked to the top of the hill and watched clouds of fog drift in from the sea.
In the evening we ate roast potatoes with spinach and drank from our last bottle of red wine.
At night, with Alice Coltrane on the last jazz station, i lay on the sofa in the lamplight and read my grandmother’s copy of Conrad’s Youth. “Pearlescent prose,” she had written in pencil, in a perfect hand, in the back of the book, 1922.
In the morning i drank coffee, black from a blue mug, and listened to Cal Tjader on the last jazz station.
At noon, i went out to the beach, sat in the dunes, and looked out at the shining sea. They weren’t any ships. Wind-tossed seagulls careened above my head.
In the afternoon, i went to the last café and had an Italian soda, peach. I read the poems of Rilke.
In the evening, i had a long talk with an old friend who was far away. Things were still okay there. They’re okay here too, i said. See you again soon, she said. There was something that sounded like a crash in the distance as she hung up.
We had a salad with bits of fresh orange and walnuts, and finished the last bottle of red wine.
There wasn’t any news.
At night, the moon hung in the window like a gigantic pearl.
In the morning i drank coffee, black from a blue mug, and stood at the back door. Smoke from the fires was blowing the other way; the air was clear and fresh.
In the beach chair at noon, i dozed in the yard till sirens woke me.
In the afternoon, i got the last loaf of bread from the last market. Then it closed.
In the evening, i read old letters from dead family and thought about burning them.
We ate the bread and a rind of good cheese. A few friends came over with a bottle of wine and we sang some old songs.
At night, there were faint stars in the smoky sky. I read a book of Auden’s poems by lantern light …that must have seen something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky…
The radio went dead at midnight.