The Silence of Snow (2021-22)
I’d like to write about the old country. The place where love and laughter exist without any self consciousness; just happen to be, I suppose. A place almost naïve in its ordinary happinesses. Like ball games and bicycles, the treacherous nature of ice. A place perhaps even laughable to some. A place, in many ways, uneventful and dull yet fringed with mirth. Where a smile lurks, waiting in the shadows and laughter lines the avenues of mispronounced words and foreign languages. It is the kind of place that emerges in safety. The safety lodged in routine, in familiarity and the daily-ness of the day. Such places exist, seldom. Pass quickly. Are mourned and missed, and seldom return. Like innocence. Like first love. Like the first sighting of something never seen before: a murmuration; a glacier, an aurora borealis. And in the backyard, the night flowering cactus in bloom. Brief lives. Here in the old country, marked by dogs and long walks; frost on the breath; the incoming sea fret; blackberries ripe for the picking; and the generosity of an avocado tree. One season gives way to another. And another. Until we find ourselves elsewhere, remembering.