Yarn.....
Today, I opened up a book that I bought about 2 years ago, in a small bookstore in York, UK. It was nestled right next to a memory of an upturned, intelligent face looking up at me from the dusty stairway. It was tucked away unceremoniously in the box of my cranium, with a remembered smell of warm scones and tea, the warmth of a log fire on a cold day.
Some memories are like butterflies, they flutter when you hold them, and make you want to release them. Ephemeral, they are gone when you let go of them. Yet others are like tightly curled up balls of yarn. You start unwinding them, and suddenly there is a whole lot of wool...You can tangle it, roll it back up, or make a sweater out of it.
England was beautiful. There will always remain a portion of me that loves cold days and gray skies. I've liked them for as long as I can remember, for they are perfect times for a book, a little contemplation. If it rains, ah, elysium in an upturned bowl! What joy to see water splashing on dirty leaves, washing away the filth of human meddling to leave pristine green leaves! I complained of cramped shoes, and too much walking, but thinking back now....
I remember long walks to the grocery store, hurrying before they close at 5pm, and fretting that she wouldn't let me force a wollen cap on her. Her cold hands digging into my pockets to steal my precious warmth. And just marvelling at her stubborness, her independence.
I remember getting up early on christmas day to find the red tiles of Montague Burton flats dusted with snow. Snow!! I'd never seen it, and it never snowed for the whole time I was there. Just that one day, for about 20 minutes. And I didn't have the heart to wake her up. She was unwell, and I slept on the floor so that she could have the bed to herself.
I remember her unpacking her bag on the coach journey home, to give me sandwiches and juice. And apologizing for not bringing me the guava juice that I had asked for.
There are memories of the past, but the sweetest ones are memories of a future to be, buds from a seed planted in the past.
Some memories are like butterflies, they flutter when you hold them, and make you want to release them. Ephemeral, they are gone when you let go of them. Yet others are like tightly curled up balls of yarn. You start unwinding them, and suddenly there is a whole lot of wool...You can tangle it, roll it back up, or make a sweater out of it.
England was beautiful. There will always remain a portion of me that loves cold days and gray skies. I've liked them for as long as I can remember, for they are perfect times for a book, a little contemplation. If it rains, ah, elysium in an upturned bowl! What joy to see water splashing on dirty leaves, washing away the filth of human meddling to leave pristine green leaves! I complained of cramped shoes, and too much walking, but thinking back now....
I remember long walks to the grocery store, hurrying before they close at 5pm, and fretting that she wouldn't let me force a wollen cap on her. Her cold hands digging into my pockets to steal my precious warmth. And just marvelling at her stubborness, her independence.
I remember getting up early on christmas day to find the red tiles of Montague Burton flats dusted with snow. Snow!! I'd never seen it, and it never snowed for the whole time I was there. Just that one day, for about 20 minutes. And I didn't have the heart to wake her up. She was unwell, and I slept on the floor so that she could have the bed to herself.
I remember her unpacking her bag on the coach journey home, to give me sandwiches and juice. And apologizing for not bringing me the guava juice that I had asked for.
There are memories of the past, but the sweetest ones are memories of a future to be, buds from a seed planted in the past.