Epilogue: Tate
It’s one of those autumn days that still looks like summer. The sun is shining brilliantly, and there are only a few clouds, long wisps of white, up high. The leaves have only just begun to turn, and green is still predominant. Bees buzz in the air. The water of Lake Michigan sparkles like someone has cast diamonds upon its surface. Its waves crash gently onto the shore.
Wafts of roasting meat from grills permeate the warm breezes, and I hear the laughter of children and the murmur of conversations all around. A car passes by, engine grumbling, but above it, an aria is playing on the radio. Jessye Norman.
Yet there’s an undercurrent, barely noticeable, that summer has already packed and is waiting at the station to make its departure for another year. Maybe it’s condition
