Walking in the dim glow of snow in Uppsala when Winter noon, a miser, let a cup of sunlight through made my chest fill with oxygen, the huff and puff, but also with something sweeter than sadness, more tart than joy. Sometimes a band of pink would tinge a building's edge, and sometimes a woman, her hair and her red scarf fluttering sensibly, would pedal by on a bicycle.
I use the old tool memory to access the restrained pleasure of such an interval of some days in Sweden. Sweden keeps occurring to me. Sometimes I wish it were a book and me a character--that awkward American--so I could live forever there, so snow and light in Uppsala could become a setting for scene including me.
In fact, right now I'm drinking coffee in that novel. I'm not important enough to advance the plot much. But I can see you peeking through the cafe window, imagining the warmth, the aroma of pastry and delicate perfumes, and the murmuring of conversation. It's cold out there. Come in.
I use the old tool memory to access the restrained pleasure of such an interval of some days in Sweden. Sweden keeps occurring to me. Sometimes I wish it were a book and me a character--that awkward American--so I could live forever there, so snow and light in Uppsala could become a setting for scene including me.
In fact, right now I'm drinking coffee in that novel. I'm not important enough to advance the plot much. But I can see you peeking through the cafe window, imagining the warmth, the aroma of pastry and delicate perfumes, and the murmuring of conversation. It's cold out there. Come in.