Sunshine. Not the New Brunswick pale sunshine that is cold in the wind from the marsh, but sunshine from places where they paint their houses white. Waiting at the bus stop in Italy with the tiny strip of shade from the thin overhangs and having to squint to see then having the squinting feel tired and yawning like those dreams where you can’t open your eyes enough to do what you have to do.
That is what I want: to be in sun so bright that squinting tires me out.
Happy Thanksgiving.