September is reaching for an apple on the tree in the garden — and then noticing that it has been claimed already.
September is sitting in a lounge chair outside on the terrace, a cup of tea at hand, captivated, of all things, by a 1968 East German novel about a teacher. Isla jumps on my lap and curls up there, and when I see that the September sun isn’t quite warm enough for my Spanish cat, I lift my sweatshirt so she can climb underneath. There I sit, with my cat-pregnant belly, and life is perfect.
Don’t worry, little snail, there are plenty of other apples on the tree for me.
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