By
dusk the snow is already partially melted. There are dark patches
where the grass shows through, like islands in the sea seen from an
airplane. Which one is home? The one I left as a
child? They all seem the same now. What became of my
parents? What about all those things I started and never
finished? What were they? As we get older we become more
alone. The man and his wife share this gift. It is their
breakfast: coffee and silence, morning sunlight. They make love
or they quarrel. They move through the day, she on the black
squares, he on the white. At night they sit by the fire, he
reading his book, she knitting. The fire is agitated. The
wind hoots in the chimney like a child blowing in a bottle, happily.
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