The Grey Would Turn to Dusk

The air was clammy, cold, like the hand of a nervous child wearing a red knit scarf. The wind was wet with the last drops of a rainstorm that had run dry of water but not of persistence. I could hear people murmuring, “I hate this weather,” “This weather is so depressing,” and the sky seemed to sigh at the flood of insults—unwarranted, it believed; after all, it was only nervous. The pavement protested the throwing of leaves and acorns—they were not being thrown, really, but anger could emphasize even the gentlest of scenes—onto its fresh coat of asphalt, for it complained to birds and squirrels alike that drenched leaves were harder to scrape off than bubblegum. And all these scattered words fell upon me in the form of silence. The people behind me had turned into a corridor and their voices had faded into nothingness. The branches trembled, trying to cover their nudity. But I was not gazing at the trees; my head tilted back to watch the sky. The clouds were so dense, pale grey and heavy yet unfathomably light; it was the first time I had seen clouds so perfectly still. I watched them intently, eyes wide, mouth agape, for I knew they were fixed only by their momentary whim, and that the grey would soon turn to an indigo dusk.

In that field was summer

Between the passing trees which seemed to shimmer in their density were flecks of gold. There was no wind to lift the branches of the bare forest yet the clearing swept in tides of flaxen colour, like fields of wild grasses in summer, or rolling plains of wheat. Their movement seemed all the more alive in their constancy, as everything else—the naked trees, the snow-covered rock, the cold, hard earth—was still. The weightless heads of those grasses turned to one another to give feather-light kisses, so brief one would wonder if they had even touched. Above that amorous field, one could almost see butterflies fluttering next to moths, and almost hear the quiet hum of bumblebees. There was summer, and here I was in a surrounding winter, looking on. But we must have been moving at an incredible speed, for within a moment winter reigned once more and the glimpse of summer slipped away.

I’m leaving now, stay warm.

I can still feel the ghost of your hands tucking a scarf closer around my neck. I can still hear you humming that little song you sing to me at breakfast, this time to yourself, more slowly, tinged with a lightness forgotten in the haste of getting me ready for school. At the doorstep at the edge of the playground now, kneeling next to me, checking my backpack strap once, twice. Then a quick smile. I’m leaving now—small squeeze on my arm. Stay warm. Then your receding figure, your black hair fluttering over the hood of your winter coat. Those spectral hands of memory reanimate with the flesh of the present; more wrinkles now on the knuckles, more blue veins visible under thinning skin. I won’t hug you, you say to me, because my hands have cracked again. Red flashes under a lifted glove. But they are the same hands. I hug you anyway, feeling your shoulders stiffen in surprise before you sigh and say, you’re all grown up now—look at you—even taller than I am. But if you go out today you still have to promise me you’ll wear a scarf. Can’t afford to get sick just because you’re on a holiday. Then you give me a quick smile. Okay, I’m leaving now—small squeeze on the arm—stay warm. I watch you turn away and realize your hair is tinged with grey.

Love from a Distance

I remember once watching them in candlelight, in the distance, laughing, smiling, oblivious to my gaze. I remember thinking how I wished I could capture that moment, make it eternal, so they, or perhaps I, might always have an instant of joy to which to return on cold winter mornings like this one. Months passed and happiness seemed to me as it might appear to children: like a cake from which we must all partake equally, lest one grow jealous. And I became the jealous one, with that cake hovering always out of reach, mocking me, goading me. By chance they came again by candlelight, and sat next to one another, next to me, to tell me with a hesitant smile and bright eyes that they had found happiness and that they wished and wondered whether I had found some too. I must have stepped back in my mind, must have gone silent as I watched them all, each of whom had been laughing, smiling, but now looked at me. Was there anything more precious than reliving a moment long gone, now young again, to taste once more that happiness that I had failed to make eternal? Perhaps I had indeed found happiness, and I smiled as I held their gaze with bright eyes of my own.

The Falling Figure

The sky was clearer than it had been in weeks. Not a cloud veiled the winter sun on that windless day. Thus, one could easily see the figure fluttering down seemingly from out of nowhere, twirling in an invisible current in that still, biting air. One might have mistaken it for a snowflake in the distance, then with a quick shake of the head would have thought, but no there’s not a cloud in the sky. Then perhaps, with a dazed wonder, would have marveled at whether angels still fell from time to time. Then with a gasp, for it must be human, it must be human!—one would have rushed in the direction of the falling figure with arms outstretched before pulling them back quickly. After all, no one could be saved from such a fall. Thus one would have waited, watching, squinting against the sunlight. Slowly, as though each bated breath delayed each passing second, the thing fell and became distinct, no longer a “thing.” And with a shrug of relief or perhaps of disappointment, one would have walked away murmuring, “so it was a bird.”