Fog floats over water, from the window at this distance the fog looks supported; water collected over the season heavy and deep, mist gathered by the lightness of morning. The scene serene as she sips her coffee. Nothing more just creamy coffee and to write. She hasn't been to the cottage at this time of year and now she is here to stay, even if temporary. Quiet reflected a stillness in her mind that had been waiting, all the racing to get here, every fraction of time hidden in boxes, stacked in columns around the cabin. Like a maze with labels Kitchen, Living room, Bath; her whole life in correct categories allowing her only narrow passage.
When she first thought of leaving to come to the cabin, her whole body would stand thick with history and she feel inertia set in, settling like jello, she couldn't move. But now she looked out over the soft fog of morning and felt light, allowed a smile and managed to squeeze forward to the typewriter.
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2 comments:
The cabin. I want to hear more about the cabin and the self in boxes. This piece beckons me in and whispers, "here, watch this."
This writing hints at so much and so poetically, but with so few words. It's brilliant. I'm drawn in and find that my imagination is running wild.
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